


Streets of Fire

by durinsheir (ShadowChanger)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bilbo Baggins is a badass, Bilbo is taking none of your bullshit Gandalf, Gandalf tries to be omniscient, M/M, Suppression of abilities, Thorin apologizes too much, Thorin is a great leader for once, a hint of self harm via suppression of abilities, but bilbo does, do you see the problem here, everything is the same except for they have elemental abilities, hobbits do not have fire-callings, idk with these tags, just go with it, not helpless!Bilbo, sass master!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowChanger/pseuds/durinsheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elemental!AU where Bilbo Baggins is the first hobbit Fire-Caller in five centuries, decides he is quite finished with the local prejudice, thank you very much, and marches out his front door with a Company of Stone- and Metal-Calling dwarves. The blasted wizard is there, too, of course. They just can't seem to shake him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! For those of you familiar with my other fic, worry not! I'm not abandoning it, I've just had this idea rolling around in my head for a week or so, and I decided what the hell I'll post it. So I have. Here it is: my stupid plot bunny that gave Middle Earth peoples limited power of various elements.

Chapter One

 

All he had wanted was a quiet morning. A quiet morning spent with his pipe and his mail.

But no.

That would be entirely too much to ask, wouldn’t it?

Gandalf peered closely at him from under those ridiculous eyebrows and harrumphed. Bilbo glared in response.

“It would benefit you to listen to what I’m saying, Bilbo Baggins,” the wizard said. “This sort of adventure is sure to-”

Bilbo leapt from his seat on the garden bench and leveled a finger at the troublesome wizard. “Now see here! I will not be doing any _adventuring_ ,” he spat, “with you or with anyone else! You’d do better looking for that sort of folk elsewhere – Bree, perhaps!” He stomped up the steps and threw open his front door.

“Bilbo! Bilbo, wait! A hobbit with your unique skills would be an asset to this job!” Gandalf had his hand on the gate; he looked ready to step over the low fence. Bilbo clenched his fist and felt his mail crumple. Thank goodness he had extinguished his pipe and put it away already.

He stepped inside his home and, before slamming the door, snarled, “My _skills?_ Ha! No, no thank you, wizard. I will have to decline your kind ‘offer.’ Perhaps another time you can join me for dinner, and we can converse like civilized folk. Good _morning!”_

The closed door offered little comfort, but Bilbo took all he could get. With a pained sigh, he turned away. The mail was carefully straightened out and flattened as he made his way to his study. It was nothing of import, thankfully, only the morning Shire Newsletter and a few birthday invitations.

The clay pot full of sand waited on his desk, and he plunged his hands into it after depositing the mail in a pile. The sand was wonderfully cool – and – and – horribly stifling. He yanked his hands out of the pot, sand scattering everywhere, and dashed to the washroom. The water from the pump was worse, and he clenched his teeth as his hands began to cool.

When the heat left his fingers completely, Bilbo sighed and hung his head. Damned wizard and his damned adventures! All the hobbit wanted was to live out his life _in peace,_ at home, without anyone bothering him with nonsense like quests or help with bonfires or field burning or –

He shoved his hands back into the water, gasping at the touch of the liquid. Smothering was best, he told himself resolutely. Smothering his curse and pretending it didn’t exist was most assuredly the best course of action.

 

* * *

 

The arrival of the first dwarf was a terrifying surprise, and the arrival of the second was an unpleasant realization that _something_ was going on.

The two younglings that bowed their way into his front room (calling him Mr. _Boggins_ ) left him speechless – until the dark one started scraping his boots –

“That’s my mother’s glory box, you heathen! Off! Now!” Bilbo snapped, tossing the weapons dumped into his arms by the blonde to one side. He waved both arms at the doormat that was _clearly_ visible to everyone present, and scowled at the dark-haired dwarf until he meekly brushed off his boots on the mat. Bilbo nodded approvingly. “Now, you may join your companions, though why _any of you are here is -”_

He was interrupted by the largest dwarf – Dwalin – noticing the arrival of the lads and asking for help to _move the table?! What was going on here?!_

Another knock at the door, and Bilbo began to feel his body heating up. He pictured snow-topped hills and grumbled angrily as he marched back to the door. With a particularly creative curse, he snatched open the door – and was almost crushed by the incoming wave of dwarves. And, standing behind the pile of tangled limbs and beards, was _Gandalf_. Of course. Bilbo glared at the wizard, but Gandalf only smiled benevolently.

It took entirely too long for the dwarves to sort themselves out. As they tromped into Bilbo’s home, they trod dirt into the carpet, scuffed his wood floors, knocked over his large jar of sand, and pillaged his pantry.

“No! Put those back!”

“What – Nope! That is an _antique!”_

“And where do you think you’re going with that?”

He was ignored, completely and utterly ignored. The dwarves threw together a sloppy feast, using nearly ever item in his pantry and even dipping into his cellar. One particularly – ahem – round dwarf strode by with a platter stacked with cheese wheels.

“Um, that’s a bit excessive? Don’t you think?” Bilbo asked incredulously. “Do you even have a cheese knife?”

He was answered not by the cheese-bearing dwarf, but another wearing a ridiculous hat. “Ha! A cheese knife? He eats it by the block, laddie!” the dwarf laughed and turned away to help a dwarf with – good gracious, an _axe_ – in his head carry another chair.

Bilbo fled the kitchen, his blood pressure rising. His entire body felt like a furnace, and he searched wildly for his sand jar, only to remember that it had been broken. A muffled scream of agitation escaped him, followed by a curse.

“Bebother and confusticate these dwarves!”

A kind – so hatefully kind – voice startled him out of his anger. “My dear fellow, what ever is the matter?” Gandalf was leaning on the wall, stooped to avoid the rafters. “The dwarves are quite a merry bunch, once you get used to them.”

Bilbo looked at the wizard in disbelief before crying out, “Well, I’m sure they are, Gandalf, but what – why are they in my _house?_ ” The candles in the chandelier flickered once before settling.

Gandalf sighed, but his eyes shone brightly in the soft light. “You _did_ invite me to dinner, Bilbo Baggins, remember?”

The hobbit didn’t have a chance to kick Gandalf’s shins, unfortunately, because a slight dwarf in a _sweater_ asked him what to do with his plate.

Then – well, then came the singing. The horrid dwarven company tossed his plates, cups, and cutlery throughout his home without care, singing that equally horrid ditty. The candlelight surrounding Bilbo brightened considerably, and the cook fire had risen from the coals in order to crackle angrily at the ruckus. No one seemed to notice, much to Bilbo’s relief. It was almost too much, but he loathed to retreat to the washroom; he didn’t think his house would survive if he let the dwarves out of his sight.

A booming knock stopped the song dead in its tracks, and Bilbo could have cheered – even if his dishes were spotless.

“He’s here,” intoned Gandalf ominously. Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes as the entire group trouped into the front hall. 

Gandalf pulled open the door to reveal another dwarf. Bilbo secretly hoped it was the last. This dwarf was taller than most of the others, and carried himself with an air of importance. His long dark hair was shot through with a bit of silver, and his resemblance to the young dwarf Kíli was evident when the lad stepped up to take the other’s cloak. The lad’s father, maybe?

A hand descended on Bilbo’s shoulder – Gandalf – and the wizard said, “Allow me to introduce the leader of this company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Mister Oakenshield smirked at Bilbo. “So,” he remarked after giving Bilbo a swift once-over, “this is the hobbit.”

Bilbo’s temper flared – and so did the candles in the chandelier. None but Gandalf noticed the slip-up. Bilbo ground out, “Yes, this _is_ the hobbit. The hobbit also happens to have a name, that name being Bilbo Baggins, son of Belladonna Took! At your service, _of course_.”

A few of the dwarves actually gasped. Oakenshield had the sense to look startled.

“Master Baggins,” he began, then cleared his throat and shot an inquiring glance at Gandalf. “Master Baggins, if we – if I – have offended you in any way, I sincerely offer my apologies.” He really did look sincere, and Bilbo promptly wilted. The chandelier candles sputtered feebly.

“No, no,” he sighed, gesturing vaguely. “I’m the one who should apologize. You are a guest, and I’m turning into a poorly behaved host. It’s only – well, to be frank,” he frowned in Gandalf’s general direction, “I haven’t a clue why you’re all here.”

Now the dwarves turned their incredulous stares to the wizard. Gandalf, to his credit, tried to appear unaware and omniscient at the same time. Bilbo thought that it was a rather good attempt, despite the fact that he was cross with the wizard. A deep, slightly angry voice cut into Bilbo’s thoughts.

“You did not tell him we were coming?” Oakenshield demanded of the wizard. Gandalf raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I did mention a quest when we last spoke – and he _did_ invite me to dinner-”

Oakenshield cut off Gandalf rather expertly and spoke directly to Bilbo, “Master Baggins, I apologize for the wizard’s neglect. If you are willing, my company and I will explain our purpose to you.”

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from laughing at Gandalf’s expression. “Of course, yes, of course I will listen. If you’re lucky, there might be dinner still on the table. Give me just a moment, and I will bring more candles.”

Oakenshield nodded, the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. Gandalf harrumphed loudly and disappeared into the kitchen, followed by the stares of the dwarven company.

As he made his way down the hall, Bilbo heard the dwarves begin whispering behind his back. He smirked. The evening, it seemed, had taken a turn for the better. He found candles, and lit them quickly before shoving his hands in the nearest sand jar. He gritted his teeth and shivered as he dusted off the sand. The instances with the chandelier had gone unnoticed, but it was better to be safe now than sorry later.

The company had scraped together some stew for their leader, it appeared, and they were all gathered around the table discussing something. Bilbo purposefully weighted his footsteps; it would not do to appear to be eavesdropping. Even so, a few of the dwarves – the cheese-block eater and the three youngest – started when he spoke.

“Here we are! Candles, parchment, and a pen, just in case.” He pulled up a stool in between Balin and Gandalf. “Now then, tell me about this quest.”

 

 

He wasn’t worried about incineration, of course. The bit about melting flesh had hardly fazed him. The bloke with the hat was really laying it on thick, and it was almost humorous. But Bilbo had hmm’d and aha’d appropriately before telling them all that he’d need a moment to review the contract in its entirety.

“I’ll be out front if anyone needs me!” he called as he grabbed his pipe and strode out the door. When the green door was shut firmly behind him, he let out a great gust of air. A _dragon?!_ What were they _thinking?!_ He couldn’t go on an adventure at all, much less one to kill a dragon. This was all Gandalf’s doing, he was certain. And speaking of Gandalf…

“But I just had the door painted!” he moaned, gazing forlornly at the shining rune. Blasted wizard.

Sitting down on his bench, he unfolded the first part of the contract and began reading. It was rather expertly written, he thought. Excellent penmanship. The older dwarf – Balin – must have penned it; he seemed like the type.

Bilbo was about a third of the way through with the fifth page when he heard his door opening behind him.

“I’m nearly finished reading,” he said over his shoulder, not taking his eyes of the page. It was probably Gandalf come to pester him about coming along. Damned wizard should know that he was hardly considering it. “Give me a moment, and you’ll have your answer, you bothersome man. Why you thought _I_ would be a good burglar is beyond me, though.”

The footsteps had stopped. Someone cleared their throat, and Bilbo was suddenly painfully aware that whoever had joined him was _not_ Gandalf. He whirled around on the bench to find Thorin looking very unsure about his position on Bilbo’s front stoop.

“Ah, Mister Baggins, I apologize about being a bother to you – but, you should know that the wizard is the one who suggested your services to me,” the dwarf said.

Bilbo’s gaping mouth snapped shut. “No! No, I – by the Green Lady – I’m so sorry! I thought you were Gandalf! You’re not a bother, I just – I mistook you for someone else,” he finished lamely. He pondered fleeing to the Party Tree. Maybe he could still climb as fast as he could as a tween. Probably not, but, then again, dwarves did not appear to be very adept at climbing trees.

“Please,” he continued, “you’re welcome to join me.” He nodded his head toward the open spot on the bench. “This is a very well-written contract; very thorough.”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth had lifted into a crooked smile as he settled onto the bench. Bilbo shuffled over slightly to put more space between them.

“Balin put it together on the way here,” the dwarf said. “I’m hoping to keep him on as Royal Scribe – maybe even Royal Advisor – once we reach the Mountain.”

Bilbo nodded as if he knew what Thorin was talking about. Royal Scribes and Advisors! What was he doing? He couldn’t go on this quest! Hobbits couldn’t compare to royalty. Good thing he was barely considering it, then.

While he was deliberating, Thorin pulled out a pipe of his own and some matches. The chemicals on the matches were different than his own, Bilbo could sense. The fire flared brighter, greener, before settling. It was also more volatile – the weed in Thorin’s pipe caught immediately, the smoke curling darkling up into the air, and –

“Great Valar beyond, what _are_ you smoking?” he asked before he could catch himself. “Here, try this, I insist. Put whatever that mud is in your pipe away before I am forced to educate you. Here, go on.” He practically snatched Thorin’s pipe out of his hands and passed over his own. “It’s Longbottom Leaf, the finest weed there is, grown right here in The Shire.”

Thorin looked startled, but took the pipe nonetheless. Bilbo was tapping out the garbage in Thorin’s pipe and refilling it with Old Toby when he felt the first breeze.

His head snapped up, and he prayed silently that it wasn’t – please don’t be _her_.

Thorin was saying something to Bilbo, something about the quality of Old Toby, but Bilbo wasn’t listening. He knew the touch of _her_ wind, jabbing and searching and thin. And sure enough –

“Good evening, Lobelia,” he deadpanned the moment she appeared from around the corner. She was wrapped in a horrid yellow shawl that clashed marvelously with her purple dress. She was carrying a lantern – extinguished, of course. Drat.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins managed to cover her disappointment at being discovered before she could announce herself, but just barely. Bilbo caught the little downward quirk of her brow before her face smoothed out to serene curiosity.

“Bilbo,” she replied drly. A tendril of air curled nastily around Bilbo’s wrist before darting away. Thorin’s hair began to stir slightly when Lobelia turned her attention to him. “I had heard an awful rumour, dear cousin, and it appears to be _true_. Had I known you would be entertaining – ahem – ‘guests’ at this hour, I would have, of course, offered my assistance.” A small gust flew back to her waiting ears, and Bilbo saw her fingers clench into a tiny fist.

Carefully, Bilbo set Thorin’s pipe and the contract to one side. He folded his hands in his lap. “Lobelia, may I introduce you to Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor.” Thorin stiffened sharply beside him, and Bilbo prayed that he hadn’t overstepped in naming the Lonely Mountain instead of the Blue Mountains. “Master Oakenshield, this is my cousin, Lobelia. She lives in Hardbottle.”

“Pleasure,” Thorin rumbled.

Lobelia’s complexion darkened at her end of the introduction. Good. It might be enough to send her off –

“Dwarves? Here in Bag End? Bilbo Baggins, what in the Green Lady’s name are you getting yourself into with these – those – _persons?_ ”

No, Bilbo sighed, no such luck.

Thorin had hardly said a word since Lobelia’s arrival, and Bilbo did not dare glance his way.

“They’ve offered me a – hm, well, they’ve offered me a job, dearest cousin. I hope that _my_ business affairs aren’t too disrupting to _your_ daily life,” he snapped, his hands curled into fists in his lap. Struggling to unclench his fingers, he scolded himself for letting the silly, gossiping woman get to him. He should know better than to fall into her traps.

Lobelia sniffed haughtily, her gaze locked on Thorin as she spoke to Bilbo. “Well,” she said, “I regret that you have fallen into such low company, cousin, and if you ever need my help-”

Bilbo was on his feet in a flash, surprising himself by nearly shouting, “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I regret to inform you that your attentions are not necessary, nor are you opinions! Unfortunately, you have overstayed your wel- hckkk!” There it was, the sharp tug he should have expected. He had not been subjected to this since he was a tween, yet he should have known she would react this way. The air had been snatched from his very lungs, leaving him choking and dizzy. The gust containing his living air curled around Lobelia and lifted the ends of her shawl briefly.

"Don't you know it's rude to interrupt, cousin?" she said sweetly, her teeth bared in a caricature of a smile.

Bilbo staggered, one hand flying to his chest. His pulse was beginning to roar in his ears, and he found himself unable to breathe at all. She had never gone this far before, had she? His chest burned, his eyes watered, he couldn’t – he couldn’t –

Dimly, he heard Thorin shouting at the woman, his deep voice competing with the pounding of Bilbo’s heart. He sank to his knees, clutching at his throat with one hand and the grass with the other. His mind reached – his lungs were burning burning burning his hands his head his heart – his mind reached – and touched found nurtured fed –

He yanked the spark from it’s source, fed it with all his pain and fury, fed it with everything he could find, and threw the resulting sheet of flame straight at Lobelia.

Thorin shouted, and Lobelia _howled_.

Air! Sudden, blissful, pure _air_ rushed into Bilbo’s lungs. He nearly collapsed, his arms were shaking so violently. But, he didn’t, and Bilbo carefully pushed himself into a seated position in the grass. He grimaced at the stains on his trousers, and winced at the smell of smoke that now clung to everything. A quick glance beyond the gate told him that Lobelia had indeed fled the scene, and Bilbo sighed with relief. He took another deep breath.

Slowly – so very slowly – Bilbo forced himself to look up at Thorin. His gaze moved over his own pipe, which lay on the ground, ashes scattered around it. _Ah, so that’s where the spark came from,_ he thought dimly. Thorin was standing above him, and when Bilbo’s eyes found him, he was still gaping at the hobbit. With another sigh, Bilbo struggled to his feet, using the bench as a crutch. He brushed himself off as well as he could, and cleared his throat painfully.

“Right then,” he croaked. “When will we be leaving on this quest of yours? I find myself quite exhausted with the inhabitants of this area.”

But before Thorin could answer, the front door flew open and the entire company burst out, clamoring and shouting questions. Bilbo spotted Gandalf, still inside, stooped and peering out at him. The wizard looked severely apologetic, to which Bilbo merely shrugged.

He had made this bed, so he might as well lie in it. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good gracious, he really is considering this 'adventure' business, isn't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk man, I just love elemental stuff. 
> 
> I'm thinking that the dwarves will want to know about Bilbo's Calling, which is how I'll explain the different kinds of Calling and whether everyone has a Calling or not. So, that should start to appear next chapter, I think.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for the love you guys have shown for this! It really makes me smile, like for real.

Chapter Two

 

“Mister Bilbo? Mister Bilbo! Are you alright?”

Bilbo made an attempt to still the tremors in his hands. Clamoring dwarves and their staring king surrounded him, and he desperately needed to sit down by his fireplace – possibly _in_ his fireplace, if this kept up.

“Mister Bilbo! Look here, you lot! What do you think you’re doing in Mister Bilbo’s front garden? Get out of my way!”

Bilbo straightened up, breaking away from Oakenshield’s penetrating stare. “Holman, is that you?”

“Aye, Mister Bilbo! Don’t you worry your gentlehobbit head, sir; I’ll clear the garden of these dwarves. Give me a moment – move along, you lot!” Holman Greenhand shouted. “Oi! That’s my rake, you stone-handed bastard!”

“Hold on,” said Bilbo. When he received no response, he raised his voice over the ruckus. “Excuse me! That’s my gardener! Unhand him, if you please, Master – erm – Master Dwarf!” The dwarf with the fiery red beard had a hold on Holman’s rake in an attempt to keep it out of his impressive beard. Bilbo really needed to work on learning their names. “Holman, calm down, it’s alright! They’re not trespassers! I just had a bit of trouble with Lobelia, that’s all.” His hands tingled warmly at the memory. “These dwarves are my guests, Holman.”

The gardener immediately calmed. After snatching his rake out of – Glin? Glon? Gloín! – Gloín’s hands, Holman nodded to Bilbo. “Apologies, Mister Bilbo.”

“That’s quite alright, Holman.”

Holman tapped one finger to the side of his nose and winked at Bilbo. “I thought I heard a horrid howling from this direction not five minutes ago. Must have been – hm, must have been the _wind_ , don’t you think?” He smirked knowingly. Bilbo snorted.

One of the dwarves – Fíli – spoke up. “Master Baggins! Were you attacked?”

“Ye-”

“No!” called Bilbo with forced merriment. He spoke right over Oakenshield’s protests, glaring at the tall dwarf as he did so. “Attacked? In the Shire? Most assuredly not. It was simply a cousin of mine, come to exchange gossip! Now then, Holman, if you would be so kind as to join me in my study, I have some business to discuss with you.” And with that, he marched through the gathering of dwarves and into his house, followed closely by his gardener. Gandalf swept passed him, calling out to the dwarves and inviting them to join him for a smoke under the Party Tree. Bilbo nodded. Good of Gandalf to have enough sense to know when to retreat.

His study waited for him, completely undisturbed by the events of the evening. He ignored the jar of sand on the desk and went straight to the small fireplace. Bending over the hearth, he snapped his fingers briskly and coaxed the coals to life. Within seconds, he was up to his wrists in cheery crackling flames. Bilbo sighed contentedly and let the fire brush his fingers and soothe his frayed nerves.

Holman cleared his throat, a nervous sound that had Bilbo snatching his hands out of the fireplace and stuffing them in his pockets. He flushed to the tips of ears and squashed the urge to pour the jar of sand over his head. Confound it, he should know better than to show – to let others see – oh, drat it all to the Void.

“Right, sorry, Holman. It’s been an – well, I’ve had a busy evening,” he said, uncomfortably aware of the gardener’s eyes on him. Holman was doing his best to appear unaffected, but he kept his gaze glued on Bilbo’s face and decidedly _not_ on the hobbit’s hands.

“No need to apologize, Mister Bilbo. Seeing Lobelia race by my front gate missin’ her eyebrows was almost as good as that old wizard’s fireworks. The gossiping ninny needed someone to show her up, and I always bet it would be you. Now, what sorta business did you have in mind?”

Bilbo sighed with relief. Holman was a kind man and an excellent gardener. Not that a Garden-Calling was rare in the Shire, but Holman and his young apprentice, Hamfast, both seemed to be particularly gifted.

“Yes. Business,” he began, and straightened his shoulders. The fire behind him settled calmly over the coals. “I believe I’m going to take a holiday, Holman. A very long holiday, actually. If you wouldn’t mind terribly tending the gardens while I am away, it would be a huge help to me. I will pay you in advance, of course, though I’m not sure how long I’ll be away… How does six months wages up front sound?”

Holman’s eyes widened. “Six _months_? Mister Bilbo, where is it you plan on holidaying to, exactly?”

Shuffling his feet and chewing the inside of his cheek, Bilbo pondered the question. “East,” he said finally. “A great distance to the East. Oh, and if your wife could come in to dust and air out the place every once in while, I would of course pay her for those services as well.”

“Well, Mister Bilbo, that’s mighty decent of you, but what are you running off for? If Lobelia has said something to you again, my wife will set her to rights, don’t you worry your gentlehobbit head!” Holman folded his arms over his chest and wore a very determined look on his face.

Bilbo smiled and laughed quietly. “No, no, Holman, the wrath of your dear wife is not necessary. Thank you, but no. I just – Oh, dear Holman, I don’t belong here in the Shire,” he sighed. Holman voiced a protest, but Bilbo waved him away. “It’s true and you know it. I never fit it in this quiet, green little bit of paradise. This holiday… this _journey_ is a chance to unwind a little before I get too old.”

Holman’s shoulders sagged. “Mister Bilbo,” he said miserably. “You’re a wonderful gentlehobbit, and the wife and I would be honored to keep Bag End for you while you’re away.” His eyes brightened suddenly. “I believe we can manage keeping Lobelia’s sticky hands off the front door, as well. Good luck on your journey, Mister Bilbo. Stay safe and dry!”

Bilbo shook his gardener’s hand, a smile on his face. “Thank you, Holman. And I will do my very best. Thank you.”

Holman bowed his head and backed out of the study. Bilbo waited until he heard the front door close before he collapsed into his chair. Gracious. He really was considering this, wasn’t he?

 

 

It must have been after midnight before Gandalf brought the dwarves back to Bag End. They all smelled of that horrible dwarvish pipe weed – except Thorin, who had apparently taken Bilbo’s earlier offer of Longbottom Leaf.

Bilbo was nearly asleep on his feet when they entered one by one, each wiping their feet carefully on the mat. Kíli must have warned them. Good lad. Gandalf ducked through the door last, nearly knocking himself out on the chandelier as he straightened. Bilbo turned his snort of laughter into a cough, and ignored the smirks sent his way by some of the dwarves. He cleared his throat quietly before approaching Oakenshield. His hands were nearly numb from the hour he spent smothering with his sand, but he forced them to stay steady when he silently presented the contract to the dwarf.

Oakenshield took the contract, his eyebrows raised. Quickly, he flipped to the final page, where Bilbo’s angular signature waited. The rest of the company stood still, their gazes jumping back and forth between their leader and the hobbit.

“Welcome to the Company, Master Baggins,” Oakenshield said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Bilbo nodded once in response. The rest of the dwarves cheered, loud and joyous. When their cheers died down, Bilbo laughed.

“Well! I suppose you’ll all need places to sleep? Gandalf, your usual room is available, and I have a few other guest rooms that the rest of you are welcome to share…” He turned, talking over his shoulder as he led them first to the linen closet and then to the guest rooms. “What time should I put breakfast on the table, Master Oakenshield?”

The dwarf seemed startled at being addressed, his hand shooting out to stop himself before he stumbled. “No, no,” he said hurriedly. “We have used far too much of your stores, Master Baggins. Allow us to take care of breakfast.”

The large, round dwarf cut in, “Yes, do, Master Baggins! I haven’t had the chance to cook in a real kitchen in ages. It would be an honor to use yours.”

Bilbo was floored. “Oh. Um, well, if you want, yes of course. I suppose we will be starting early?” Nods all around. “Of course. Yes. Well, I must pack. Good night.”

A chorus of ‘good nights’ followed him as he fled down the hall. Before he rounded the corner, he caught Oakenshield’s eyes following him, but then there was a door between them. Bilbo sighed and sagged against the closed door of his bedroom. Sleep weighed on him heavily, but there was still much to do.

His traveling gear seemed a little fine compared to the rugged efficiency of the dwarves’ garb, but it would have to do for now. If they passed through Bree, more traveling clothes could be purchased there. Belladonna’s old bedroll, along with her oilskin cloak, pipe, and diary, lay in the bottom of the chest at the foot of Bilbo’s bed. He pulled out the bedroll and cloak, along with several sturdy shirts and trousers. He left his lovely floral-print waistcoats in his wardrobe with a sigh, as well as his brand new silk lined party jacket. Ah, well.

Before long, his pack lay stuffed and ready at the end of his bed, but he was still missing one thing – aha, there they were. The thick gloves were deposited in a side pocket for easy access. His pipe and walking stick would have to wait until the morning to be gathered. Besides, he was quite certain that his pipe was still out in the front garden.

He slid into bed gratefully, just as the clock in the hall chimed two o’clock. Bilbo was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 

 

Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was the smell of breakfast, or the knocking at his bedroom door, that woke him. Nevertheless, he was awake in a flash, the candle on his bedside table flickering to life.

“Yes?” he called out tentatively.

“Master Baggins,” Kíli – though it could have Fíli, or even the sweater-wearing dwarf – said nervously, “there’s a frightfully insistent woman in your kitchen. She and Bombur are fighting over the consistency of pancake batter. I thought I would warn you before they did something awful.”

Rolling out of bed, Bilbo tugged on last night’s trousers and a questionably clean shirt before opening his door. It was indeed Kíli, though his brother was right behind him, and the two were wide-eyed as they followed Bilbo up the hall.

Bilbo sighed when he heard Holman’s wife’s voice floating in from the kitchen. She was scolding someone loudly, apparently.

“Mrs. Greenhand,” he called over the scolding as he stepped into the kitchen. He ducked a flying ladle, hopped over a puddle of spilled milk, and lifted a fresh scone from the plate sitting precariously on the counter. “Good morning, Mrs. Greenhand!” He hid the scone behind his back when the boisterous woman whirled around. She had flour splashed all over her apron mixed with what appeared to be squashed blueberries.

“Oh, Mister Bilbo!” she cried, throwing up her hands. “Thank goodness you’re awake! Holman sent me over to get breakfast started, but there’s this – this – dwarf who insists on using your kitchen!”

Bilbo smiled and nodded, his eyes finding the aforementioned dwarf, Bombur, grumbling over a pan of frying bacon on the stove. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Greenhand. Thank you so much for your assistance, but these dwarves are my guests and have offered to make breakfast for themselves this morning. You are more than welcome to assist, if you like!” he added quickly when the woman opened her mouth to argue. Another reassuring smile from Bilbo, and she sighed in defeat.

“Yes, well, I suppose that will be fine. How do pancakes sound?”

“Pancakes sound wonderful, Mrs. Greenhand, thank you.” Bilbo turned around smartly and ushered Fíli and Kíli out of the kitchen in front of him. “Come along, boys.” He snagged two more scones on the way out. The scene that awaited him outside the kitchen startled a laugh out of him; the entire company of dwarves – minus Bombur – were waiting anxiously by the kitchen door.

“Pardon my neighbor, gentlemen,” Bilbo said, still chuckling. “She is a lovely housekeeper, but with five children, her nerves tend to be a little frazzled.”

“ _That_ ,” one of the dwarves said reverently, “is a proper woman.”

Bilbo laughed again, and turned to Fíli and Kíli. He deposited two of his stolen scones in their hands. “Thank goodness you woke me when you did, lads, or she might have brought down the kitchen!” With a quick smile, he took a bite out of his own scone, and marched through the crowd of dwarves and into the dining room.

Despite the early hour, this was turning out to be a rather lovely morning, he thought.

 

 

Breakfast was a loud affair, though it was nothing compared to the previous dinner. Impossibly tall stacks of pancakes were delivered to the table, accompanied by scones, bacon, fried eggs, and tomato slices. Not a crumb remained when the meal was finished, and the dishes were swiftly taken care of, minus the singing.

Bilbo sent a packet of letters home with Mrs. Greenhand. Most were addressed to the Mayor of Michael Delving, concerning his extended holiday and the keeping of Bag End during his absence, but there were a few going out to relatives that he felt would want to know of his whereabouts. Primula Brandybuck and her brother, Rorimac, particularly would be curious about his journey.

Finally, it was time to depart. Bilbo retreated to his bedroom for one final time to collect his pack. He jammed his hands into the stiff gloves and flexed his fingers, stretching the material. With a soft grunt, he hoisted the pack onto his back, and blew out the candle on his bedside table. The dwarves and Gandalf were waiting for him out by the road, and Bilbo cast one last fond look over his sitting room. The portraits of his parents sat proudly on the mantle, and he smiled sadly when he shut his green front door and locked it behind him. The key was deposited in Holman’s waiting hands, along with a check for the promised wages. Holman tried to give the money back, the silly hobbit, but Bilbo tucked it into the gardener’s jacket pocket when he wasn’t looking.

Well, he thought to himself as he followed Gandalf down the road, he had done it, really, finally, done it. He was leaving the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo totally burned Lobelia's eyebrows off. It really happened. But of course, she'll claim it was a cooking accident in order to avoid the embarrassment. 
> 
> I got kind of carried away with Holman Greenhand and his wife here, sorry. There will be more ~~action next time. Holman Greenhand (Bilbo's original gardener) kind of takes on Sam Gamgee's father (Hamfast, AKA Gaffer) as a gardening apprentice, which is how Sam gets to be gardener in Lord of the Rings. 
> 
> Yay history. 
> 
> Anyhow. Thanks again, and if you ever want to discuss plot or share ideas, comment here or leave me an ask. 
> 
> durinsheir


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it a problem that I am the only Fire-Caller in the Shire? Is it a problem that I am the disgrace of two families and an entire town? Is it a problem, Master Oakenshield, that my Calling has never helped anyone, in any capacity, ever?!” He was standing now, leaning low over the table and staring straight at Thorin. The fire in the hearth was roaring, the flames leaping into the reaches of the chimney and the logs cracking sharply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings from the world of college! 
> 
> Since I'm having a great first two weeks, I've written this extra-long chapter just for you guys. Enjoy!

Chapter Three

 

The ponies were an unpleasant surprise, and Bilbo scolded himself for not expecting them. How else would they get all the way to Erebor? It would probably take a year, at _least,_ to walk. One of the pack ponies was repurposed in order to become Bilbo’s mount, and the fuzzy brown creature whinnied angrily when the hobbit approached.

                  “Of course,” he sighed, shoving his hands as deep as possible into his coat pockets. Animals had never taken well to his presence; he supposed they could smell the flames inside him, and what animal wasn’t afraid of fire? Bofur, who had taken upon himself the task of getting Bilbo settled, tugged gently on the pony’s halter and murmured soothingly to it until it settled.

“There, there, Myrtle! He’s just a hobbit, isn’t he? Nothing to worry your furry head over, m’dear,” the dwarf told the pony while winking at Bilbo. The pony snorted and stamped one last time before stilling, but its ears were stilled pinned to its neck. “Come on, then, Master Baggins. She’ll settle once she gets to know ye better.” Bofur beckoned to the hobbit. Rolling his eyes skyward, Bilbo stepped to the side until he was downwind from the pony. Once he was sure the animal could no longer immediately smell him, he reached for the saddle and mounted quickly.

The pony jerked and snorted in surprise, but after a few head tosses, it quieted. The rest of the company was already mounted and waiting. Bilbo glared at Gandalf’s frowning face.

“Not very hobbit-friendly, these ponies of yours!” he called to the back of Oakenshield’s head, and nudged his pony forward. A few of the dwarves snickered. They were quickly silenced by a glare from their leader.

“Apologies, Master Baggins,” Oakenshield rumbled, and kicked his own pony up to a swift walk. The rest fell into line behind him, and silence fell over the company.

They were several hours west of Bree, and Bilbo was painfully aware of every horrified look he received from the hobbits they passed along the way. None called out to him. After the sixth hobbit (a young Proudfoot lad, by the look of him) dashed off toward Hobbiton, the dwarves began to whisper amongst themselves.

Kíli broke away from the group and slowed his pony until it was in step with Bilbo’s. “Hullo, Mister Boggins-”

“Baggins.”

“What?”

“It’s _Baggins_ , not Boggins.”

The horror on Kíli’s face was amusing, but Bilbo took pity on the lad. “It’s a common mistake,” he lied. “No harm done.” He could hear Fíli laughing quietly in front of them.

“You’re sure you’re not cross?” Kíli asked hesitantly.

Bilbo laughed out loud, startling himself and the young dwarf. “No! I’m not cross, I promise.”

The change in Kíli’s expression was immediate; a massive grin split his young face and he called out to his brother. “It’s alright! He’s not cross with us!” As Fíli slowed his pony to walk on the other side of Bilbo, his brother continued. “So, Mister Baggins, we were wondering-”

“- _you_ were wondering,” Fíli interjected.

Kíli continued as if he hadn’t heard, “-why these other hobbits were acting so… hm, terrified? No, that’s not right – Fee, help me out here-”

“Worried? Rabbity? Apprehensive?”

“No, still not right.”

Bilbo sighed. “I believe the word you are looking for is ‘scandalized.’”

“Yes! Scandalized!”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Bilbo shifted awkwardly in the saddle. He could feel the sores beginning to form, and concentrated on that in order to avoid the question that the boys were trying to ask.

“Mr. Baggins?”

“Hm?”

“Why are they scandalized? Are we doing something wrong?”

Bilbo immediately snapped, “No! You’ve done _nothing_ to warrant their behavior. I – well – it’s me. I’m the scandal.”

Because of his outburst, a few of the other dwarves had dropped back to listen in on the conversation. Bofur was twisted around in his saddle, his head tilted slightly to one side.

“You?” he asked.

The hobbit nodded once and shrugged. “Me. You see.” He took a deep, fortifying breath. He would have to tell them eventually, and better sooner than later, he supposed. Maybe the dwarves’ reaction would be different than the typical hobbit-fear. Maybe the sky was green. “You see, I’m the cause of quite the scandal around these parts. Before me, no hobbits were-”

Gandalf’s interrupted Bilbo with a bit of forced cheerfulness. “Hobbits do not go on quests, my dear fellows! Bilbo is the first in many generations to voluntarily venture beyond the borders of the Shire. It’s quite unheard of, I can assure you!” The wizard rode around them, the longer legs of his horse carrying him to the front of the Company.

Bilbo watched him go, his mouth hanging open in surprise. That – that – that _wizard_! Bilbo had prepared himself to inform the dwarves of his true nature, and here this infuriating man was, strutting about like he knew _everything_ there is to know about _everything_. Not to say that what Gandalf had told the dwarves was false, of course, but still… meddling, maddening _wizards_.

“So, none of you ever leave?” Kíli was asking. Bilbo continued to glare at Gandalf’s back, hoping the wizard would turn around. He didn’t, so after a few seconds Bilbo sighed and turned to the young dwarf.

“None? No, I would not say that not a single hobbit ever leaves the Shire. A scant few are forced to travel for business, occasionally, and more than a few Tooks run off to see the elves at least once a season. I, however, will be traveling quite a bit farther than any hobbit has in recent memory. Hence, the scandal.” He shrugged, and flexed his fingers inside the heavy gloves. “We are a comfortable people, and most never see the need to go beyond our borders.”

The listening dwarves nodded at his explanation, and one or two commented on the peculiarity of hobbits. Kíli, however, still looked rather confused.

“But, if they never leaves, how do they learn new Songs?” he asked. “Ori had to go all the way to _Gondor_ with Balin to finish his Scribe Song. It caused a huge uproar when Dori found out. Mum had to lock him in his own forge for a whole day to keep him from bringing Ori back.” Both Kíli and Fíli laughed at the memory. In front of them, Bilbo saw Ori duck his head, a smile lighting up the young dwarf’s face.

Questions of his own now bounced around Bilbo’s mind. Why would any have to travel to learn a new song? Personally, he had written several songs in his life. There was a certain appeal to another culture’s stories and music, of course, but why specifically a song about scribes?

“Do dwarves not have their own music?” he asked.

“Of course we do!”

Bilbo frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand – why did Ori have to travel for a song about scribes? Is it a particularly good song? Wait – why are you all staring at me like that?”

No one answered; Fíli and Kíli were gaping at Bilbo, their eyes wide with astonishment. Several of the others had twisted around in their saddles in order to gaze questioningly at the hobbit.

“Now see here! It was just a question,” Bilbo said nervously. Bofur looked positively concerned, and something akin to pity crossed Gloín’s face.

Kíli broke the dwarves’ silence, his voice hushed, “Mr. Bilbo… do hobbits not have Songs?”

“I just asked you the same – what – I mean, yes, Kíli, hobbits have songs? I’ve even written a few!”

The dwarves continued to look at him strangely. After a moment of incredulous silence, Balin, who had left the front of the group in order to listen, spoke up.

“Lads, it’s becoming apparent to me that Mr. Baggins is unfamiliar with dwarven Songs.”

“- but I just – what is going on?” Bilbo was thoroughly confused.

Balin continued, “Kíli, I do believe that your Song is the easiest to demonstrate – if you would be so kind?”

The young dwarf straightened in his saddle, his expression bright. “Right away, Balin!” He turned and grinned fiercely at Bilbo. “Watch this!” Turning to face the front again, his brow creased and a faint look of concentration settled over him. Nothing happened at first, but –

Bilbo nearly yelped when the rush of air swept past him and collided with Bofur’s face, sending the dwarf’s hat flying.

“Oi! Not fair!” he shouted, scrambling to catch his hat before it fell to the ground. Bilbo turned to Kíli, his mouth splitting into a wide grin that the young dwarf matched. Several of the others were laughing.

“You’re a Wind-Caller!” Bilbo exclaimed. Understanding dawned on him; dwarves had Songs, and hobbits had Callings.

“Well, I’m wind-born, if that’s what you mean. I’ve learned a few other Songs, too, but wind is an easy one to show. Are hobbit Callings like Songs?”

Bilbo nodded. “From the sound of it, yes, they are; though, I’ve never heard of a hobbit learning another Calling. Most hobbits have Affinities within their Calling. One of my cousins, for example, is an Earth-Caller, but he has always had a way with trees and wood-working. A few of us, though, have pure Callings.” He stopped, the words dying on his tongue. Could he tell them about his own Calling? Should he? He caught Gandalf glancing at him over his shoulder, his bright eyes twinkling damningly.

“What’s a pure Calling?” Bofur asked, dragging the hobbit out of his worried thoughts.

Fíli cut in, “Is it like having a Soul Song? All the great heroes had Soul Songs, which meant they were born knowing all the Songs.”

“Ah, no,” Bilbo said. “Pure Callings aren’t the same as Soul Songs, though that does sound rather amazing. A hobbit with a pure Calling has complete mastery over their Call, and is not diluted by an Affinity. I – um – my mother, I mean, she was a pure Wind-Caller. Yes.” He hummed awkwardly, unable to make himself tell the dwarves what his Calling was. Memories of childhood friends flinching away whenever he came close came to mind.

A deep voice called from the front of the group. It was Master Oakenshield. “What about that – the relative, the one that ‘graced’ us with her presence? Was that a pure Calling?”

Bilbo snorted and rolled his eyes. Lobelia, a pure Caller? “Gracious, no!” he replied. “Her Calling is filtered by an Affinity for secrets. Her breezes are the extent of her power.” He laughed softly to himself, his heart warming at the thought of being rid of Lobelia’s attentions for the foreseeable future.

Oakenshield was looking over his shoulder at Bilbo and frowning. Bilbo raised one eyebrow, daring the dwarf to mention Lobelia’s attack and his own retaliation. The dwarf only narrowed his eyes before turning back to the road ahead.

“And what about you, Mister Baggins?” Ori asked. “What’s your Song, erm, Calling?”

Bilbo’s heart stuttered. “Oh! Um, well – it – oh, tell me more about Songs, first! Then we’ll see if you can guess my Call.” He tried to smile reassuringly.

Fíli spoke first. “Well, I’m stone-born, but I’ve learned the Sword, Metal, and a couple others.”

“I showed you my birth-song, Uncle and Mister Dwalin taught me War, and I learned the Archer’s Song on my own,” Kíli told the hobbit proudly, his fingers dancing across the bow in his lap.

The others closest to Bilbo began to chime in, each explaining their own birth-songs and learned-songs.

“Scribe-born!” came from Ori, followed by Bofur’s call of “Miner-born, learned the Craftsman Song. Bifur,” he pointed to the dwarf with the axe imbedded in his head, “is craftsman-born, and he learned the Song of War.”

“As did I,” Balin said, “though I am scholar-born. Dwalin is war-born.”

Kíli turned back to Bilbo and tried to ask about the hobbit’s Calling. Bilbo pretended not to hear him, instead listening to Oín shout about being healer-born, Gloín telling them all about being gem-born and calculation-learned. Dori, apparently, was silver-born.

“And what about you?” Bilbo asked the dwarf with the star-shaped hair – Nori.

The dwarf laughed. “Me? I’m a rare one, Master Hobbit.” A rare one? Could he possibly be like Bilbo? “I haven’t got a birth-song. I had to learn all my Songs on my own.” He winked at the hobbit, and Bilbo did his best to conceal his disappointment.

“Bilbo, what’s-”

“And what about you, Gandalf? Do wizards have Songs as well?” Bilbo shouted over Kíli’s question. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could put this off.

Gandalf harrumphed loudly at the front of the group. “No, Bilbo, we do not. Wizards are permitted the use of certain magics.”

Some of the dwarves made sounds of awe and appreciation, and if Gandalf straightened in his saddle slightly, well, that was his business.

 

 

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Oakenshield was telling the Company. Bree was just ahead, barely visible in the fading daylight. “Purchase what supplies you may need, but keep our purpose to yourselves.”

A few calls of ‘aye!’ came from the Company before they moved forward as one toward the town. Bilbo followed, his pony falling into step beside Gandalf’s horse.

“When will you tell them?” the wizard asked, his pipe held to the side as he tried to light it one handed.

“Soon,” came Bilbo’s short reply. He watched Gandalf attempt to lead his horse and magic a flame into existence at the same time, growing more and more exasperated by the second. The wizard began to grumble angrily under his breath, nearly dropping his pipe when the tiny flame on his finger singed his beard.

“Oh, here, you silly wizard!” Bilbo sighed, and tugged one glove off with his teeth. He flicked his bared fingers in Gandalf’s direction, and the pipe-weed flared to life. Immediately, Bilbo stuffed his hand back into the glove and looked around to make sure no one had seen him. When he turned his attention back to Gandalf, the wizard was serenely puffing away, a small cloud already forming under the brim of his hat.

“Thank you,” Gandalf said, and Bilbo scowled in response.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bilbo, really. I was merely having a bit of trouble with my pipe.”

“Hmph.”

“Bilbo…”

“ _Gandalf…_ ”

“You shouldn’t worry so,” the wizard told him sternly before easing his horse into a trot, leaving the hobbit behind.

The Company, following Gandalf’s lead, stopped at The Prancing Pony Inn. The innkeeper managed to shove a few tables together in a corner that could accommodate the group, and food and drink were soon delivered after Oakenshield handed over a few coins. The dwarves ate in a much more subdued manner than they had at Bag End, their conversations hardly rising above the noise of the room.

The other customers were Men, all dressed in rough clothes. A few tall, cloaked Men were clustered around a table in the opposite corner. Rangers from the North, Bilbo thought. The Big Folk cast a few curious glances in the Company’s direction, but, for the most part, they were ignored.

Dwalin, Balin, Gandalf, and Thorin were speaking in low voices at one end of the table, pointing at different spots on a map of the surrounding area. Gandalf said something that the dwarves apparently did not like _at all_ , and the wizard harrumphed loudly before rising from the table.

“I will leave you to it, then!” he grumbled, and stalked toward the door. Bilbo watched him go, alarmed. He was about to chase after the wizard when his Calling flared brightly in the corner of his mind. Nearly falling out of his chair, he twisted around to find the innkeeper stoking the fire in the fireplace with a large fan. The flames snapped and curled happily over the fresh logs. It _sang_ to Bilbo in the loveliest of whispers, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, grimacing.

He turned away from the fireplace, and saw that Gandalf was gone. His heart sank, and he clenched his fists inside his pockets.

 

 

The Company began to retire for the night, one by one trudging up the stairs until only Thorin and Bilbo remained. The hobbit hadn’t noticed – he was watching the glowing coals in the fireplace. It was only when silence fell around him that he realized that he and the dwarf were alone in the common room.

Thorin was bent over the map of Eriador, tracing paths with one finger. Bilbo made to get up from his chair and slip away.

“Why haven’t you told the others?” Thorin asked, his voice low. Bilbo froze halfway out of his seat.

“Told them what?” he hedged awkwardly. Thorin looked up from the map, his gaze forcing Bilbo to hunch his shoulders and sink back into the chair.

“You have the fire-song.” It was not a question.

“Is that a problem?” Bilbo snapped, surprising himself.

Thorin, it seemed, was surprised as well. “What?”

“Is it a _problem_ that I am the only Fire-Caller in the Shire? Is it a _problem_ that I am the disgrace of two families and an entire town? Is it a _problem_ , Master Oakenshield, that my Calling has **_never_** helped **_anyone_** , in any capacity, **_ever_**?!” He was standing now, leaning low over the table and staring straight at Thorin. The fire in the hearth was roaring, the flames leaping into the reaches of the chimney and the logs cracking sharply.

Bilbo’s heart was pounding, and he could feel the heat spreading over his hands. The air felt hot in his lungs, amazingly and wonderfully hot, and he swallowed harshly. He watched for Thorin’s reaction, waited for the exiled king to leap to his feet and –

Thorin remained seated, his dark blue eyes locked onto Bilbo’s. Without saying a word, he slowly turned his attention to the roaring fire. The dwarf narrowed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and Bilbo gasped when he felt _something_ brush against his Calling. He whirled around, watching and sensing the fire change.

The flames settled, as if the air had been stolen from them, until only the barest flicker danced over the glowing coals. The presence eased around Bilbo’s Calling until his hold on the fire was nothing more than an idea, and pulled away. Bilbo sucked in a shaky breath, dragging his gaze back to Thorin.

“You-” he gasped. He had never felt such familiarity, such control, over fire – he had been so wrong to fear, so foolish –

“I am metal-born,” said Thorin, and Bilbo’s heart dropped.

“Oh,” he sighed, shakily returning to his chair. “Then how…”

“I learned the Forge Song many years ago. It is not so different from a Fire Song, which is rare enough amongst dwarves. Where those that are fire-born can summon fire from the air and bend it to their will, the Forge Song allows others to maintain existing flames in various ways. I can raise the fire to incredible temperatures and heights, but I cannot create it, nor is my soul tuned to its song.” He paused and took a breath, his gaze unwavering as he watched Bilbo.

Bilbo was limp in his seat, his Calling flickering. The heat eased out of his hands as it never had before, and he heard the fire sizzle contentedly behind him.

“I know not what keeps you from revealing your Song to the others,” Thorin continued, “but you should know that to be fire-born is highly valued amongst our people. You will not be turned away. I swear it.”

 _Highly valued_. Staring at his hands folded limply in his lap, Bilbo whispered, “I – I will tell them, I will… but not yet – I can’t, I need-”

“Whenever you are ready, Master Baggins,” came the reply, followed by the scraping of Thorin’s chair over the floor and the muffled thudding of his boots as he withdrew from the room.

_Whenever you are ready. You will not be turned away._

_Highly valued._

The burning logs began to hiss and pop merrily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Callings and Songs, Songs and Callings. What do you think? Elves and Men will have different names for that, which I will introduce later. Eventually. When we reach that point.
> 
> But I digress. The fun part was picking out the Company's different Songs. I liked the idea that dwarves could learn more Songs, even though the learned-song would not be as potent as their birth-song. It seemed fitting for their culture, methinks.
> 
> Long chapter was long. 
> 
> Oh, I almost forgot! In case you missed it, I did not name Bombur's Song. I'm having a hard time deciding what it should ultimately be, so I want your input! Also, if you have ideas for anyone else's learned-songs, feel free to message me or comment!
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments and stuff. You guys rock.
> 
> durinsheir


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo heard the wind before he felt it; it was like the howling of wolves, accompanied by the roar of a waterfall. 
> 
> “Oh dear,” he muttered before the wind rushed through the Company. 
> 
> The wind was pushing at Bilbo, threatening to tip him out of the saddle if the pony didn’t do it first.
> 
> Over the roar, he dimly heard someone calling his name. As the gale continued, the shouting increased in volume until Bilbo had to release his jacket to cover his ears.
> 
> “BILBO BAGGINS! DO NOT TAKE ANOTHER STEP!”
> 
> Wait a moment.
> 
> He knew that voice.
> 
> Oh dear, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to take a break for college stuff, sorry! I haven't had time to go back through and edit it, so ignore all the grammar fuck ups. I'll read it again later and fix all the really big mistakes, but I wanted to go ahead and post before I go eat supper.

Chapter Four

 

The gloves remained on his hands the next day, despite Thorin’s words. Bilbo had put them on out of habit when he awoke at dawn, and was disappointed in himself at the sense of comfort they provided. The thick material muffled the Call of the fireplace when he passed by on his way to breakfast.

Half of the Company, including Thorin, had already eaten and were out purchasing more supplies. Bilbo found himself being pulled along by Fíli and Kíli as the boys raced from shop to shop, asking a dozen questions every time they took a breath.

“Are there Water-Callers?”

“What about Scholar-Callings or other skills?”

“Oh, do you-”

Bilbo threw up his hands. “One at a time! Slow down, you crazed young things!” he laughed. “Yes, Fíli, there are Water-Callers. Only a few, of course; hobbits don’t take well to water. My cousin Saradoc is Coming of Age soon, and it looks as if he’ll Present as a Water-Caller. And, no, Kíli, hobbits do not have Skill-Callings, per se…” he paused for a breath and considered his answer. “I consider myself of a scholarly bend – I have my own private library at home – but hobbits do not consider a skill a Calling unless it is a gift from the Green Lady.”

“A gift?”

“The Green Lady?”

“Kíli, put that down, you already have – oh, fine – yes! A gift, from Yavanna Kementári, mother of all that grows; if it is not of Arda, then it is not a Calling.”

“So you only have Callings that are elements?” Kíli asked, picking through a barrel of arrows for sale outside the local blacksmith and eyeing them critically.

“Correct.”

Kíli selected a dozen arrows, tsking at the state of the others. Bilbo could find nothing obviously wrong with any of them, and he said as such.

“Hm? Oh, well, you see, since I’m an Archer and I learned the Metal Song, I can feel which arrows will fly straight and which were forged incorrectly. None are perfect, of course, because they’re Man-made, but they’ll do,” he shrugged and stepped inside the smithy to pay for the arrows. Bilbo looked over at Fíli questioningly, but the blonde dwarf only shrugged.

“They just feel like wood and fletching to me. I’m stone-born, and I chose the Sword Song ages ago.”

Bilbo nodded his head in the direction of the Man-sized swords leaning against the wall of the smithy. “And those swords?”

“Aren’t worth the metal they’re made with.”

“That’s an awfully harsh observation,” Bilbo said.

Fíli shrugged again. “It’s true.”

The trio moved on to the next shop once Kíli had purchased his arrows. It turned out to be a general-stuffs store, to Bilbo’s delight. He found a hobbit-sized hooded cloak made of thick, waxed wool, and instantly purchased it.

“You expecting a storm, Mister Baggins?”

“I am _expecting_ to be dry if there is a storm, Fíli. Now, I do believe Thorin wanted to leave before noon?” He looked pointedly at the sun’s position in the sky. It was nearly at its zenith.

“Oops,” muttered the lads at the same time, and they took off down the street at a run. Bilbo sighed, folded the cloak more securely in his arms, and jogged after them.

The rest of the Company – minus Gandalf, who had taken his horse and disappeared last night - was waiting outside the inn, already mounted on the ponies. Thorin frowned disapprovingly at the lads as they scrambled atop their ponies. Bilbo rolled his eyes and circled his own pony until he was downwind before mounting. Myrtle snorted and tossed her head in irritation.

“Oh, stop that,” muttered Bilbo as they fell into line. “We’re stuck with each other, so you might as well get used to it!” The pony pinned back her ears in response.

Once he was sure that Myrtle wasn’t going to pitch him from the saddle, Bilbo twisted around to deposit his purchases in his pack. Bofur, who was riding in line next to him, watched Bilbo’s hands with a confused look on his face

“Are you cold, Mister Baggins?” the dwarf asked.

“Am I – no, I’m just fine, thank you?” Bilbo replied, unsure of what Bofur was asking him.

The dwarf glanced down at Bilbo’s gloved hands before looking back up at his face. “You’ve been wearing gloves ever since we left your little hobbit-hole.” He shrugged. “I thought it might be a hobbit thing, to be unnaturally cold all the time.”

Bilbo froze, turned halfway around in his saddle. One hand curled tightly into a fist around the reins, and the other dropped to rest on his thigh.

“Um. No. I’m not cold.”

The memory of his father handing him the gloves sprang to the forefront of his mind.

_“It might be best, my boy, to wear these when you go out. Just in case there is another… incident … like yesterday. Don’t you agree?”_

_And Bilbo had put on the gloves without a word. Later, he vomited three times when his mother lit the kitchen fire and he found he couldn’t feel its Call._

_“It’s for their protection.”_

“It’s for their protection,” he echoed the words from decades ago. The dwarves riding closest to Bilbo instantly turned to look at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Thorin straighten in the saddle at the front of the column.

“Whose protection?” Bofur asked.

Thorin’s promises came rushing back to him, and he rubbed the fingers of one hand together.

“In the Shire,” he said, “I have what is considered a very dangerous Calling.”

 _No turning back now_ , he thought. _Too bad that bloody_ wizard _is not here to see it._

A loud shout interrupted his next words, and Bilbo’s shoulders slumped. _This is becoming slightly ridiculous._ He craned his neck, searching for the source of the shout.

Kíli – of course it was Kíli – was twisted around in his saddle, nearly crouched on top of it. He had his hands flung out in front of him with his fingers stretched wide.

“What is it?” Thorin snapped. “Are we in danger?” He reigned in his pony, and Bilbo saw that his hand was creeping toward the hilt of his sword.

Kíli shook his head slowly, a look of intense confusion on his face. “No – it’s someone behind us – I can’t tell who. This is incredible!” His hands were twisting and waving, and Bilbo noticed the air around the dwarf stirring. “Whoever it is, they’re pushing my winds back at me, and-” Kíli stilled, his eyes widening. Without warning, he lowered his hands and threw himself out of his saddle.

Bilbo heard the wind before he felt it; it was like the howling of wolves, accompanied by the roar of a waterfall.

“Oh dear,” he muttered before the wind rushed through the Company. Bending low over the neck of his pony, he clung to the edges of his jacket and closed his eyes. The others were shouting, and a few ponies whinnied loudly. The wind was pushing at Bilbo, threatening to tip him out of the saddle if the pony didn’t do it first.

Over the roar, he dimly heard someone calling his name. As the gale continued, the shouting increased in volume until Bilbo had to release his jacket to cover his ears.

“ _BILBO BAGGINS! DO NOT TAKE ANOTHER **STEP!** ” _

Wait a moment.

He knew that voice.

Oh dear, indeed.

Shielding his eyes, Bilbo sat up in the saddle and turned to look behind him. He squinted, the gusts sending dirt into his eyes, and spotted another pony galloping after the Company.

Oh gracious.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted with all his might, “PRIM! TURN IT OFF!” A tendril of air snatched at his words and flung them back in his face. The next thing he knew, he was wrenched sideways out of his saddle and slammed into the ground. The gusts swirled around him, rolling and dragging him down the path.

“PRIMULA!” he shouted, his hands clawing uselessly at the ground. Kíli was crawling after him, one hand reaching for Bilbo and the other twisting his own winds into the fray. The other dwarves were clinging to their ponies and shouting. Thorin was struggling to dismount, the winds pressing down on him mercilessly.

“ _PRIMULA BRANDYBUCK! STOP!”_ Bilbo’s hands found purchase around the trunk of a sapling. He clung to it tightly, hooking one elbow around the small tree and struggling to his knees. Debris stung his face and neck, and he shielded his eyes with his free hand. The galloping pony was closer now; close enough to pick out two riders on its back.

Kíli reached him, his hair whipping around his head. The young dwarf wrapped one arm around Bilbo and the tree, shielding the hobbit from the worst of the winds.

“ _Do you know them?!”_ the dwarf shouted in his ear, incredulous.

Bilbo nodded. He could hear the hoof beats of the other pony and risked glancing over Kíli’s shoulder. The front rider was sitting tall in the saddle, and when they were close enough that Bilbo could see her face, Prim reined the pony to an abrupt halt. She flung herself out of the saddle and marched toward the Company. Her hands hung loosely by her sides, with her fingers twitching ever so slightly. The wind rushed around her, but not a single hair was out of place atop her head. She glared in the direction of Kíli and Bilbo, and a tendril of air wormed its way between the two. With a shout, Kíli was twisted away from Bilbo and forced to the ground.

Bilbo glared at Prim, but continued to cling to the tree. He heard Thorin shout something behind him, followed by the clanging of metal and a loud _thud_. Prim strode confidently by the dwarves until she was standing in front of Bilbo. She crouched down, and the winds slowly began to lessen.

“Are you alright?” she asked, reaching out to brush Bilbo’s riotous curls off his forehead. He swatted her hand away and struggled to his feet.

“ _Primula Brandybuck!_ ” he shouted, leveling a finger at her. “What are you _doing?”_

The last of the wind instantly died, and the air became eerily still. Prim’s eyes were wide and her mouth had dropped open.

“Well, I – we-” she started.

“You’re a _girl!_ ” came Kíli’s reverent exclamation. He had regained his footing and was watching Prim with equally wide eyes. “And you’re so _powerful_.” The rest of the Company began dismounting and shouting.

Prim snapped out of her astonishment and rose to face the young dwarf. Her teeth were clenched and Bilbo could see a muscle jumping in her jaw. A breeze ruffled Bilbo’s hair, and he reached out to grab Prim before she could get started again. Before he could touch her, however, someone snatched him backwards by the collar of his jacket. Thorin released Bilbo and stepped in between him and Prim, sword drawn and leveled at the angry hobbit lass.

“Thorin!” Bilbo said, raising his voice over the Company’s questions. Thorin ignored him, leveling his sword at Prim. A loud _crack_ sounded above Bilbo’s head, and he looked up just in time to see a large limb come hurtling toward the ground. Without hesitating, he wrapped both arms around Thorin and hauled backwards. They fell down in a heap, and the broken tree limb crashed to the ground exactly where Thorin had been standing.

Silence.

Thorin rolled to his knees and scrambled away from the limb, one hand gripping Bilbo’s shoulder in an attempt to drag the hobbit with him. Bilbo twisted out of Thorin’s grasp and jumped to his feet, tugging off both gloves as he marched toward Prim. He threw the gloves behind him, not caring where they landed.

The Call flooded his senses, the heat building around him; in his hands, his heart, his mind. He could feel it seeking release – seeking to burnburnburn –

“Prim!” he shouted. “How _dare_ you!”

The air began to smell faintly of smoke.

“And _Rorimac Brandybuck!_ I know you’re here, too! You should be _ashamed_ of yourself! Both of you!” He slapped both hands on the fallen limb and gritted his teeth. The green wood would smoke terribly, but he desperately needed to burn _something_. “How dare you use your Lady-given Callings to do harm! What were you _thinking_?!” The limb snapped when the heat struck its core, and flames began to crawl from beneath Bilbo’s hands. “Rori!” he continued, directing the fire over the limb until it was eating away at every inch of wood. “Show your face right this instant or I _will_ come find you!”

For a moment, the only sound was the fire eating away at the limb, but then Bilbo heard the quiet footsteps of another hobbit. Rorimac shuffled from his hiding place to his elder sister’s side, his hands jammed into his pockets and his eyes focused on his feet.

“Well?” Bilbo snapped. “What do you have to say for yourselves? Go on, we don’t have all day!”

Rorimac did not look up, but Prim bit her lip and glanced around at the wind-swept dwarves nervously. She mumbled something before looking down at her own feet.

“What was that?”

“’m sorry,” Prim muttered.

“You’re _sorry_?” Bilbo was incredulous. The flames rushed in a circle around the limb and jumped several inches into the air. “Primula, what in the name of the Green Lady were you _doing?_ ”

“We thought you had been kidnapped! We were coming to save you…” she trailed off, twisting one foot back and forth in the dirt.

Bilbo lifted his hands from the burning limb and threw them up in exasperation. A few sparks and tongues of fire followed his fingers, swirling around his fingers before settling in his palms. He turned and began to pace, watching the curling flames while he pondered the insanity of his cousins.

Movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him, and he saw Thorin bending to pick up his discarded gloves. The realization of having an audience suddenly hit him, and Bilbo froze. The fire in his hands winked out, and he spun to face the Company. They were watching him closely, a few with expressions filled with awe.

“Um,” he began, looking between the Company, the burning limb, and his cousins. “Well. Gentlemen, these are – these are my cousins, Primula and Rorimac. Prim is a pure Wind-Caller, and Rori has an Affinity for trees. They are both insane – and very sorry, I’m sure – and I will be sending them home _immediately_. Erm. And, well. Yes.”

He took a deep breath.

“And I have a pure Fire-Calling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Frodo and Bilbo! I drew the Tolkien Estate symbol on the inside of my wrist in honor of this lovely Hobbit Day. Hope you liked the chapter (PRIM AND RORI ARE MAH FAVS) (ALSO: *gasp* the REVEAL). Please feel free to leave a comment here or drop a note in my ask box! Thanks so much for all the kind comments and kudos and stuff :D
> 
> EDIT: It has come to my attention that "Streets of Fire" is the name of a Bruce Springsteen song, so I guess I should credit him? Idk. Credit. Yeah. 
> 
> DOUBLE EDIT: If you guys want to hear a few songs that really make me think of this fic, and The Hobbit in general, then you should check out "Pompeii" and "Things We Lost in the Fire" by Bastille. Both are amazing. Bastille is amazing. Just listen to Bastille. 
> 
> durinsheir


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was certainly no going back, now. He had told them what he was, but Thorin had promised – and now Prim and Rori were here – and they had nearly hurt someone – he could still feel his Call in the back of his mind, rolling contentedly over the feeling of freedom and burnburnburn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi so I broke my own rule about alternating posting this and Age of Dragons. But I was on a roll and couldn't stop so bonus!chapter for you yay! 
> 
> Warnings: I know I've tagged this with "suppression of magical abilities" or something like that, and that /really/ comes into play in this chapter. It could be interpreted as a form of self-harm, so if that is something you don't really want to read, then skip the last part of the chapter. 
> 
> Read on!

Chapter Five

 

Everyone began talking at once, of course.

Some of the dwarves were shouting at Prim and Rori, some were shouting at Bilbo, and a few were just shouting – those few being Nori and Bofur.

“I nearly fell off my pony!”

“Fire?!”

“Why didn’t ye tell us, laddie?”

“I could have been blinded!”

“Are we just going to take this abuse?”

And so on.

Kíli was slowly making his way to Prim’s side, his hands clasped behind his back and an eager smile on his face. Fíli watched his brother closely, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.

Thorin, Bilbo noticed dimly, was silent. He was still holding his sword in one hand, though it wasn’t pointed at anyone at the moment. Their eyes met briefly, and Bilbo opened his mouth to say something – to apologize, to thank him, to scream, _anything_. He choked on the words, and Thorin looked away before Bilbo could recover.

The limb was still burning behind him, and the smoke was rising thickly into the air. Prim wrinkled her nose and raised a hand to push the smoke away, only to be beat to it by another wind.

Kíli grinned widely at Prim as he sent the smoke upward and out of her face. She scowled back and flicked her fingers in his direction. A breeze snatched at the smoke and threw it in Kíli’s face. Sputtering and coughing, he staggered away from her while Fíli tried not to laugh.

“Prim,” Bilbo scolded, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. There was _certainly_ no going back, now. He had told them what he was, but Thorin had promised – and now Prim and Rori were here – and they had nearly hurt someone – he could still feel his Call in the back of his mind, rolling contentedly over the feeling of _freedom_ and _burnburnburn_.

Prim instantly looked back at her feet, mumbling an apology. Bilbo sighed, his world narrowing to the problem right in front of him. He had to send Prim and Rori home, and he had to do it quickly.

“Right then,” he said, ignoring the questions the dwarves were still directing at him. “Primula, Rorimac, look at me.”

Prim glanced up once before ducking her head again, and Rori couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the burning limb.

“Rori! Prim!” The fire jumped a little, and one of the smaller branches on the limb snapped and fell, still burning, to the ground. Rori blanched, and Bilbo suddenly realized his mistake.

Rori had an Affinity for _trees_.

And Bilbo had just burned a limb that Rori was Attuned to, and he had done it in a ridiculous fit of pique. _Stupid, stupid Calling! Horrible, worthless, disgusting –_ the flames shrank dramatically until only embers remained. The Call shivered in the back of his mind, and he tried to smother the feeling.

“Oh, Rori, I am so sorry…” he sighed, pushing away the last of the heat forcefully. The limb hissed and moaned as it cooled. “I wasn’t thinking, I was just so – my temper got the better of me, Rori, I swear it won’t happen again, it’s alright-” He stood in front of Rori and reached out to take the other hobbit’s hands in his own, but snatched his hands back when Rori flinched.

\- _the children ran from him, shouting, while Bilbo tried to Call back the fire. The little girl remained where she had fallen, sobbing as she cradled her burned hands -_

Bilbo whirled away, a strangled sob threatening to emerge from his throat. His gloves, he needed his gloves – where –

_\- why don’t you wear these, son? Just in case – in case there’s another… incident -_

Someone pressed the thick gloves into his hands – he didn’t look to see whom. He snatched them away without a word and crammed his fingers into them, choking back another sob at the feeling of being smothered.

_\- oh, sweetheart, we know you didn’t do it on purpose -_

“Rori, Rori, see,” he turned back to his young cousin, tears clouding his vision as he presented his gloved hands. They trembled under Rori’s gaze. “I can’t Call now, Rori, it’s okay, I can’t Call the fire. Forgive me, please,” he trailed off into a whisper, waiting. The others had fallen into stunned silence, but Bilbo had not noticed.

Rori swallowed and licked his lips before taking a deep breath. He reached out his own hands slowly. Prim sniffled miserably.

Bilbo nearly collapsed when Rori’s fingers touched his. The younger hobbit lightly grasped the gloved hands and looked up at Bilbo, a small, wavering smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s alright, Bilbo,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, too, for making the tree drop its limb. I was scared he,” his gaze darted over Bilbo’s shoulder to land on Thorin, “was going to hurt Prim.”

Relief flooded through him, but Bilbo couldn’t reply – he was too busy holding onto a crying Primula and trying not to burst into tears himself.

“There, there, dear,” he told Prim. Rori sniffled a few times before tugging on his sister’s dress.

“Come on, Prim, quit it. You’re embarrassin’ us,” the young hobbit hissed. Prim instantly pulled away from Bilbo and wiped her eyes with one hand.

“Sorry,” she hiccupped.

“It’s quite alright, Miss,” said Bofur, as he stepped up and offered her a questionably clean handkerchief. “Though, I’d like to point out that we haven’t kidnapped your cousin. He’s traveling with us for a little while, that’s all.”

That caught the two Brandybucks’ attention. Prim swept the offered handkerchief over her face quickly and gaped at Bilbo, her expression matching that of her brother.

 _“Traveling? Where?”_ they asked together.

“To Er-”

“East,” Bilbo said over Bofur’s explanation. “For a few months. Did you not read a bit of the letter I left for you?”

Rori shrugged. “Prim started to read it out loud, but she only got to the part about you leaving with some dwarves before she ran out the door. I had no choice but to follow her, you see.”

“No choice. Of course,” sighed Bilbo, shaking his head and brushing a few errant tears out of his eyes. “Of course. Um, well, now that you know I haven’t been kidnapped, you need to go home.”

“What?”

“No!”

“We rode all this way, Bilbo!”

“Can’t we come with you?”

“No!” Bilbo shouted, cutting them off. “No, you may absolutely _not_ come with me! You’re too young – I can’t _believe_ you came all the way from Buckland with nothing but a pony, what were you _thinking?!_ \- there’s no telling what sort of dangers are out there, and your parents would _kill_ me if we ever came back alive – no, no, absolutely not, and that’s final!” He leveled a gloved finger at the duo, and they frowned. Prim began to pout, and crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.

“We just want to help,” she said. Rori nodded in agreement, his green eyes widening pleadingly.

Bilbo rolled his eyes to the sky and sighed.

“Unfortunately,” Thorin said, his voice low and calm, “Master Baggins has filled our only available position for this … job. Had we known there would be so many willing hobbits in the Shire, I would have had more contracts written, but, as it stands, there is only one contract, and your cousin has already signed it.” He stood at Bilbo’s side, hands clasped behind his back. He had sheathed his sword, and was attempting to look as unthreatening as possible. Prim leaned away slightly, however, and Rori scowled up at Thorin darkly.

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “So you see,” he told them, “even if I allowed you to go, there wouldn’t be a way to, erm, hire you. I think it would be best if you rode on back to Buckland and stayed there until I come home, don’t you?”

The two hobbits frowned and shook their heads.

“If I promise to bring back presents and new bedtime stories, will you go?”

Rori glanced at Prim hopefully. She shook her head again. Bilbo sighed.

“How about if I teach you to speak Elvish?”

That caught their attention. Ignoring the horrified sounds the dwarves were now making and the mighty scowl that had descended upon Thorin’s face, Bilbo smiled encouragingly at his cousins.

Prim glanced at Rori, who shrugged one shoulder and nodded.

“Oh, I suppose. But you have to promise! No, you have to _swear_ you’ll come back and teach us! _And_ bring presents and new stories. Otherwise we won’t leave,” she told him, lifting her chin defiantly.

Breathing out forcefully, Bilbo smiled and nodded. “Of course, yes, of course. I swear. Now, go on, get back to Buckland before someone comes after you!” The two launched themselves into his arms for a tight embrace.

“We’ll miss you,” Prim said, her voice muffled by Bilbo’s shoulder.

“And I’ll miss you, too.” He released them after a final squeeze and gave them a slight shove in the direction of their pony. “I’ll be back before you know it, I promise.” Would he? He banished the thought from his mind as fast as it had appeared.

Rori grabbed his sister’s hand and dragged her toward the pony, glaring over his shoulder at the dwarves as he went. His gaze landed on Thorin, and the young Brandybuck stuck his tongue out at the King-in-Exile. Bilbo snorted, and saw Kíli covering his smile with his hand.

The two young hobbits scrambled onto the pony’s back, this time with Rori in front of his sister.

“Hurry back!” they called, waving over their shoulders as the pony trotted back down the path.

Bilbo watched until they were only a shape in the distance, then let out an explosive breath. His knees felt weak, and he could barely sense the Call in his mind. Staggering slightly, he went to the nearest tree and leaned heavily against its trunk. The air around him was thick with smoke and he hated the way his heart warmed at the scent.

“Bilbo?” someone asked hesitantly. “Are you alright?”

He took a few deep breaths and swallowed before pushing off the tree. Once he had straightened his jacket and adjusted the gloves on his hands, he looked up at the Company.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he told them, his voice flat. “Just a bit of a rush, that’s all. Though, I’m terribly sorry about Prim and Rori. They meant well, but they should have known better than to use their Callings like that…” He trailed off, ignoring their stares and the burnt patches of grass where he had been standing, and made his way to where Myrtle was grazing with the other ponies. He mounted smoothly. “Shall we?” he asked, and nudged his pony into a walk.

His question broke the silence, and he heard the others mount their own ponies and follow. Most of the Company passed him until only he and Thorin remained at the back of the line. The dwarf directed his pony to walk beside Bilbo’s.

Bilbo watched Thorin out of the corner of his eye, dreading (and hoping) that the dwarf would say something. He kept his eyes glued to where his hands held the reins. Thorin was shifting in his saddle, his hands tightening and loosening repeatedly on the reins. He let go of the reins with one hand and reached out.

Bilbo’s heart began to pound.

Clenching his hand into a fist, Thorin halted his reach with a growl and grabbed the reins again. He sighed quietly before kicking his pony into a trot and riding to the front of the line.

Bilbo let his shoulders sag as guilt-tinged relief shot through him. He nudged Myrtle into lengthening her strides, and followed the silent Company down the path.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the smell of smoke was left behind, and with it went the ache of the fire’s Call.

 

 

They halted that night in a clearing not too far off the road. Thorin had delegated the setting up of camp to Dwalin, and was watching Bilbo closely from where he was unsaddling his pony.

The hobbit had a distant look in his eyes, and his movements seemed stiff. Once he had pulled all his belongings from his pony’s back and arranged them into a pile, he simply stood still, looking at the ground. Thorin finished tethering his pony to a nearby tree and started to walk toward the hobbit; it wouldn’t do to have him in this state. He needed everyone to be alert and well. However, before he could get close, Bilbo snapped out of his stupor and began digging through his pack for something. Bofur leaned over and said something to Bilbo, to which the hobbit responded with a quick smile and a nod.

Satisfied that the hobbit would recover, Thorin returned to the opposite side of camp to where Dwalin and Balin were seated. They had much to discuss now that the wizard wasn’t there to dispute them.

 

 

He hadn’t _really_ needed the map; he knew the general layout of the lands beyond Bree fairly well. But, the map had belonged to his mother, and in a way, it made Bilbo feel better about wandering away from the Company.

He crept through the forest on silent feet, sticking to the lengthening shadows cast by the setting sun. Night was swiftly approaching, and Bilbo did not want to be caught out in the dark for too long. He doubled his pace, going over his intended path in his mind without glancing at the map.

It was best to go through with this, he told himself. It would be safer for everyone. And tomorrow, he would apologize to the Company and go back to the Shire. It was the best option.

He could hear the quiet murmuring of the brook as he strode down the hill. The small stream was one of many that fed the Midgewater, which they had thankfully elected to ride _around._ The cold water wasn’t deep at all; just enough for a quick wade or bath.

Bilbo took a deep breath and crouched down by the stream. The memory of the look on Rorimac’s face when Bilbo had torched the limb would not leave him. What had he done? He could have seriously hurt Rori; he could have damaged the lad’s Call, or burned his Affinity! Head cradled in his hands, he pondered the water in front of him.

It was best, he told himself, no matter what Thorin and the other dwarves thought of Fire. He was a hobbit, and hobbits did _not_ have Fire-Callings.

With a low cry, Bilbo slipped off the gloves and dunked his hands into the stream.

The water was _cold,_ so very cold, but he grit his teeth and forced his arms deeper until the water reached his elbows. It felt like he was choking and freezing at the same time. His Call began to roll and sputter inside his mind; the water was smothering the fires in his skin, slowly and painfully.

Several agonizing minutes passed, and Bilbo could feel that simply wetting his arms wasn’t going to work. There were still a few sparks left to smother.

Groaning, he shifted until he was seated on the edge of the stream, his entire body submerged up to his stomach. It wasn’t long before he began to lose all feeling in his extremities. His eyes shuttered closed a few times, and Bilbo bit his lip and shook his head. He had to force himself to stay awake – he wasn’t trying to kill himself, obviously, just… smother.

He needed … to stay awake – Valar, it was horrible so _cold so cold so cold_ – the water, he could feel it rolling through him and over his Call – _so cold_

He needed –

To –

Stay…

-awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you have been asking some great questions about how Calling and Songs work, and I can't wait to start answering them in the story! If I have time, I'll try to go back through all the comments and answer them individually with a little more detail than can be described in the story at this time. So stay tunedddddd
> 
> durinsheir


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gandalf stumbles upon a disturbing discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke my own rule again oops. But gosh darnit I'm so into this fic right now I can't stop writing! Apologies to those of you still following AoD. 
> 
> Anyway. Happy Weekend, and Happy Press-Junket Day!

Chapter Six

 

The sun has completely set, and Dwalin is assigning the night’s watches when Thorin notices that the hobbit is missing. At first, he thinks nothing of it; Mister Baggins was probably tending to his pony, or something similar. A quarter of an hour passed, though, and the hobbit had still not reappeared.

“Dwalin,” Thorin says quietly. “Have you seen the Halfling?”

The bald dwarf frowns and gives the camp a quick once-over before shaking his head. “Not for a while, no. I’ll ask around t’see if the others know where he’s got off to. It’s not good for him to be alone right now, in my opinion. You saw his face when he was apologizin’ to the two young hobbits!” Dwalin emphasized when Thorin raised one eyebrow. “This business with his Song isn’t good, and you know it. Something happened to him. Something that messed with his head.”

“It’s none of our business,” Thorin replied, but Dwalin had known him too long to believe that lie.

“Mhm. I’ll ask the others where he went.” Dwalin stepped away.

Thorin huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. The fire popped and cracked loudly in the middle of the camp, and he could not help but wonder how far the hobbit’s abilities extended. He had seen evidence of the “Calling” with his own eyes, but all of the instances had occurred when the Halfling was under duress. What were his natural capabilities? Would he be capable of controlling fire outside of a fireplace? Could he raise fire without kindling?

Those were questions for another time, it seemed, because Dwalin was returning from his questioning. Thorin raised his eyebrows in askance.

“Bofur was the last to speak with him, says he pulled a map out of his pack and walked off without a word.”

Thorin suppressed a sigh. Of all things – he might have guessed that the hobbit would change his mind about this quest, but, then again, he left all of his belongings behind.

“Without a word, he said? Just walked straight out of camp and into the Wild?” he asked, slightly incredulous. The hobbit was practically defenseless, despite his remarkable Call; he doubted Mister Baggins would have the presence of mind to summon a flame in the event of an attack.

“Aye.”

Bofur followed Dwalin to Thorin’s side and joined the conversation. “I know I told you he went off without a word, but I might ‘ave been mistaken.”

“How so?” asked Dwalin, his voice gruff. 

“He seemed all quiet and stiff like, at first, but once he found the map, he got this look on his face – this sort of, eh, the kind of expression you get when you know you’re about to get hurt but you go forward anyway? – and he mumbled what sounded like ‘river,’ and walked away,” Bofur told them. He frowned, and the ends of his moustache drooped.

“Ach,” snorted Dwalin. “Now isn’t the time for a bath. He’ll get himself killed by bandits, Thorin. What was the wizard thinking, choosing someone like that?” He shook his head and kicked some debris into the fire. Sparks jumped off the logs and into the night sky.

The river? Hobbits were probably fond of bathing more than was strictly necessary… but a hobbit with the Fire in his soul? Water could be dangerous…

 

* * *

 

 

His horse slowed to a trot, then a walk, jarring Gandalf from his thoughts.

“Tired so soon, my friend?” he murmured to the horse, and tapped its flank lightly with his staff. The horse whickered in response and tossed its head.

“Come now, we must return before Thorin has them walking in circles.”

Rumbling and whinnying, the horse crab-stepped for several lengths until Gandalf tugged on the reins.

“What in Eru’s name is wrong, you silly thing? All we have to do is cross this stream and-” He gestured at the shall water just beyond them, and froze when his gaze landed on a small, huddled form on the shore. “Ah, I see. Forgive my haste, mellon-nin.” He dismounted.

Some unfortunate traveler, no doubt, lost in the Wild. He sighed, a sad frown pulling at his wrinkled face. The closer he got to the body, however, the smaller he realized it was. Small enough to be a child, or even a hobbit…

Ice shot through his veins at the thought. Surely not, he reasoned, nearing the shore opposite the prone form, surely Bilbo would not wander so far from the others, or be left behind. He lifted the hem of his robes with one hand and crossed the stream, crying out in despair at what he found.

“What has happened to you, my dear Bilbo? Who has done this?” Forgetting his robes, the wizard knelt in the stream and eased the soaked hobbit onto his back. Gandalf leaned close to Bilbo, feeling the icy temperature of his skin and listening for evidence of life.

The soft puff of air from between the hobbit’s lips was shaky, and Gandalf pressed his palm to Bilbo’s forehead and murmured a few quiet words of power. To his shock, Bilbo’s Call was nearly extinguished; only the smallest of sparks remained in the corner of his mind.

“What woe has befallen you, dear Bilbo?” the wizard murmured, bundling the hobbit into his arms and whistling for his horse. Bilbo began to shiver violently, and his eyes rolled wildly behind his closed lids. “Stay strong for me. All will be well in time.”

Gandalf’s horse knelt, and the wizard swung one long leg over the animal’s back before settling Bilbo in front of him. “Go with haste! We must find the Company!” he shouted, and the horse leapt forward into a gallop.

 

* * *

 

 

“Perhaps,” Thorin said slowly, “perhaps someone should retri-”

“There’s a rider approaching!” Fíli’s shout rang through the camp.

Dwalin and Thorin yelled in unison, “To arms!” and the sound of weapons being drawn filled the air. Everyone moved into a defensive position, and the pounding hoof beats of the approaching horse could be heard in the distance. The dark kept the identity of the rider from them all until the horse was nearly in their midst. Thorin had half a mind to order Kíli to shoot whoever it was, but _something_ held him back…

“Gandalf!”

That damned wizard! Of course he would return to them in such a ridiculous manner. Thorin growled and sheathed his sword forcefully.

“Wizard,” he gruffed, once Gandalf had reined in his lathered horse. The wizard was holding something in front of him on the saddle. He had his long, grey robes tucked around the object. “What have you been doing?”

Gandalf dismounted carefully, cradling the still-shrouded object in his arms. He turned to face Thorin, and the dwarf would have flinched at the wizard’s expression had he been a lesser creature. As it was, he was of the Line of Durin, and fear of a wizard’s moods was not suitable.

“I could ask you the very same question, Thorin son of Thráin! You have nearly killed him!” Gandalf thundered, the light of the campfire casting his face into shadow. “Now, quickly, raise the fire!”

“What?” Thorin was bewildered. Of course, this was just like the wizard to expect them to know everything. “Nearly killed who?”

Gandalf strode past him, a terrible scowl on his face. When he neared the fire, the wizard threw back his cloak to reveal –

“Mister Baggins!”

“What happened?”

“Is he dead?”

The Company surged forward in order to get a better look at the wet bundle in Gandalf’s arms. Thorin shoved his way to the front of the group, his heart dropping to his toes.

“How…”

Bilbo Baggins was deathly pale, almost blue, and his entire body was shivering convulsively. Water clung to his skin. When Thorin reached out a hand, he felt the icy temperature of the hobbit’s skin before his hand was knocked aside by Gandalf.

“He will die if this fire is not raised! His Call is nearly extinguished, and he is almost beyond any help I can give. I will need the hottest fire possible. Quickly! He is fading!” Gandalf snapped, casting aside his cloak and laying Bilbo down next to the small campfire. The Company hesitated for a fraction of a second before leaping into action.

“Wood! We need more wood!” Gloín yelled, leading those with axes into the dark.

Kíli shoved his bow and quiver into Fíli’s waiting arms. “I’ll help. I’ve got the Forge Song; I can raise the fires,” he said, stripping out of his overcoat. Fíli tied back his brother’s hair with a strip of leather while Kíli yanked off his armguards.

Thorin stood frozen in place as his youngest nephew knelt at the fire’s edge and began the Song. Fingers curling into loose fists, Kíli closed his eyes and found the fire in his Song, and began to raise the flames. Gandalf, meanwhile, was leaning over Bilbo’s convulsing form and murmuring quietly.

Ori came sprinting to the fire, his arms laden with freshly hewn firewood. He dumped it on the ground next to Kíli, and ran back into the forest. Fíli bent down and began arranging the wood in the slowly rising fire, the flames licking at the fresh fuel eagerly. Sweat began to bead on Kíli’s face; the fire was growing, and Thorin was beginning to feel the effects of the heat.

“More!” Gandalf said, pausing in his muttering. “Hotter!” He turned to Thorin. “I will need both of you for this. The heat is more important now than the size.” Thorin hesitated. “Thorin! He will die if you do not do this!”

The King-in-Exile cast aside his indecision. Throwing off his fur coat, weapons, and vambraces, he dropped heavily to his knees by Kíli and cast his hands directly into the flames. The heat was overwhelming at first, but the Forge Song awakened immediately and filled his mind with fire.

He could feel Kíli’s Song flaring brightly through the flames, and he added his own, urging the fire to burn _hotterhotterhotter_. The flames flickered wildly, the colors changing from dark red to orange, then orange to yellow. Distantly, Thorin began to sense the feeble sparks of the hobbit’s Fire. He was horrified at how weak the Call was, and willed the heat to increase as fast as it could.

“Hotter!” shouted Gandalf at the same time Gloín and Dori returned with more wood. Fíli tossed each log into the fire, wincing every time he neared the flames. Thorin and Kíli could no longer feel the heat at all, so deep within their Songs had they gone.

Thorin began to sense that the fire had reached its peak. Without proper forge kindling, it could only burn so hotly before settling completely. He told the wizard as such, and Gandalf snatched up his gnarled staff in both hands. With a shouted word, the wizard stabbed the end of the staff into the heart of the fire. Thorin nearly fell over backwards when the fire roared up, the flames shockingly blue.

Gandalf thundered, “Try again!” and returned his attentions to the still-pale hobbit.

The wizard’s magic fed the flames more quickly than any forge kindling, and Thorin and Kíli soon had the fire burning white-hot with a deep blue center. Gandalf halted his murmurings and fixed Thorin with a penetrating stare.

“Do not allow the fires to fall. The current state of his Call will fight you. _Do not let it win_.” And with that, he pitched the hobbit’s shaking body into the fire.

Kíli cried out at the sudden disruption of the Song and opened his eyes. He cried out again when he saw Bilbo in the middle of the flames, but Thorin wrenched the Song back into motion, urging the fire to continue its _burnburnhotterburn_. Kíli, a horrified look on his face, followed suit. The smothered feel of the hobbit’s Fire began to drag and weigh on Thorin and Kíli’s Song, but together they wove life into the flames and began rekindling the Call’s sparks.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, wizard!” Thorin ground out, his hands twisting around the dancing flames.

Gandalf muttered, “So do I.”

Nori and Dwalin came charging into camp, bearing more wood. Nori allowed his armful of wood to fall to the ground when he spotted the hobbit in the fire.

“He’ll be burnt to a crisp!”

“His Call will save him, if we act quickly,” Gandalf responded, watching Bilbo closely. “He will not burn.”

And indeed, Gandalf was right, Thorin noticed through the Song. The fire curled lightly over and around the hobbit’s body, but it never touched him. Not even his clothes were affected.

It was not long before color began to creep back into the hobbit’s complexion and his convulsions ceased. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and then breathed in again. The fire began to jump higher and higher until Thorin and Kíli could no longer hold it back.

“Get back!” Gandalf shouted, just as Thorin felt the hobbit’s Call swell. He grabbed Kíli and threw himself and the lad backwards, attempting to shield them both with the tattered Song.

With a deafening _crack_ , the fire extinguished completely. Then, as quickly as it had gone, the flames roared back to life, twice as high as before. The Fire-Calling twisted around the tendrils of Thorin’s Forge Song, and the dwarf feared he might be burned to a cinder right there –and by Mahal’s Hammer the Call was strong and hot, full of incredible power. The Call lifted from his mind in a rush, however, and looped back into the campfire where Bilbo had rolled to his hands and knees.

The hobbit was coughing and wheezing, the flames licking around the ages of his body. He looked around distantly, as if he wasn’t sure what was happening, and glared at the fire he was sitting in the midst of. The flames shrank away from him in an almost apologetic way before circling lowly around him in a circle a few inches high.

“Bilbo?” Gandalf called out from his crouched position several feet away. The scorched stretch of ground ended scant inches from where his beard grazed the ground. Thorin looked down around where he and Kíli were lying and tensed when he saw the island of unburned grass they found themselves on.

The hobbit crawled shakily out of the shrunken fire and collapsed into a seated position. He cradled his head in his hands and groaned softly.

Fíli fell to his knees at his brother’s side and began checking him for injuries as Thorin stood.

“Mister Ba – Bilbo?” repeated Thorin lowly.

The hobbit groaned once more before lifting his head from his hands and looking around blearily. The flames began to reach out from the campfire toward him.

“I-” he started, his voice hoarse. “I was so c-cold. I think – I think I need to lie down.”

And then, to Thorin’s horror, Bilbo promptly passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't listen to Bastille, you should start listening to Bastille. Their songs are soooo goooooood. 
> 
> Someone mentioned in the comments (I'm sorry I can't remember who) that it would be funny if Bilbo accidentally rolled into the fire while he was asleep one night, and that kind of influenced what happened here lol
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting and kudoing. You guys are the greatest!
> 
> durinsheir
> 
> EDIT SEPT. 30, 2013: I was rereading a lot of the comments, and I realize that a lot of you probably wanted Thorin to find Bilbo, carry him all the way back to camp, and majestically save him single-handedly (I kind of did, too). Sorry about that. It would have felt too forced, to me, to have Thorin race after 'the Halfling' so soon after meeting him, so Gandalf found him and Kili started the saving process. It just feels more natural. Idk. Thanks for reading and I love getting comments and kudos from you guys like nothing else :D


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how about that trailer??!! The shot of Thorin in his new armor made me scream just a little, not going to lie. Anyhow, here's some fic in honor of the new trailer. (Still breaking my posting rule oops)
> 
> small warning: (?) some more discussion of Bilbo's self harm via suppression of abilities. also a question as to whether he was trying to kill himself. nothing even remotely graphic, at all, but if that's something you don't want to read about, I suggest you skip the second half of the chapter.

Chapter Seven

 

Bilbo’s body sagged to one side before folding and hitting the ground with a muffled thump. Kíli scrambled on his hands and knees to the hobbit’s side, followed closely by his brother and Thorin.

“Is he still breathing?” Fíli asked as Kíli reached out one hand to touch Bilbo. When his fingers grazed the top of the hobbit’s forehead, however, he hissed sharply and jerked his hand back.

“His skin! It’s nearly boiling!”

Gandalf’s weary voice came form just above their heads, “You will need your Forge Songs to touch him for the next several hours. But, he will live. His Call is rekindled.”

“Why hasn’t he woken?” Thorin demanded.

“Because his body needs time to recover.”

“How much time?”

Gandalf sighed, his shoulders sagging a fraction. “I do not know.”

Gritting his teeth, Thorin left the tending of the hobbit to his nephews and stalked to the opposite side of the fire. He watched the flames stretch to their limits in their quest to touch the hobbit. Gandalf followed him and fixed him with a penetrating stare.

“I found him half-drowned in a stream,” the wizard murmured. Thorin gaped up at him before wrestling his face into a neutral expression.

“What was he doing in a stream? Surely he knows the effect that water has on him?” he asked, returning his gaze to the hobbit’s prone form. Oín had pushed the boys to one side and was beginning to examine Bilbo himself, muttering and grumbling as he did so.

Gandalf’s voice contained a note of warning. “I was hoping you held the answer to that, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin looked up at the wizard in surprise. “Me? I had nothing to do with this! Ever since the two young halflings found us on the road, he’s been quiet-”

“Two young hobbits?”

Shaking his head, he continued, “Yes, his cousins, a Wind Singer and a – a Tree Singer? Mister Baggins surprised us all by burning a tree limb, and he hasn’t been right since.” Thorin frowned darkly at the thought. The deep sorrow that had settled over the Halfling after his relatives departed was troubling, to say the least. “What,” he ventured, when Gandalf did not speak, “keeps him from accepting his Song? He has an incredible power at his fingertips, but he refuses to acknowledge it. In fact, I would go so far as to say that he _fears_ his Fire.”

Gandalf hummed quietly for a few seconds before replying. “I will not betray Bilbo’s confidence by telling you of the origin of his discomfort, but I will tell you that you are correct in your assumptions. He does fear his Call. He is the first in five generations to be born with the Fire, and he did not have a kind childhood.”

Nodding, Thorin crossed his arms over his chest. “He did mention once that he was the only one of his kind. What of the other Fire-Caller? Were there none capable of helping Mister Baggins grow into the Fire?” Oín finished his examination and Fíli and Kíli returned to the hobbit’s side; Kíli was feeling of Bilbo’s forehead, a look of deep concentration on his own face. Thorin could feel the faint echo of his youngest nephew’s Forge Song wafting through the air around them.

“Five hundred years, I do believe it’s been,” began Gandalf quietly. “I did not know the Fire-Caller personally, but he was of the Took family – an ancestor of Bilbo’s mother. The details are unknown to me, and to many, for the family has since all but erased his existence from memory, but I do believe he was the first Fire-Calling hobbit, ever. And, no, no,” the wizard sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head, “from the minute he Presented the Fire, Bilbo was ostracized. Hobbits are gentle creatures, and do not take well to any sort of harmful or dangerous types.”

“And what happened to the first with the Fire, in the end?”

Gandalf glanced down at him before looking back over at Bilbo. A heavy weight seemed to settle over the wizard. “He walked into the Brandywine River, and he did not surface.”

“He drowned himself?” Thorin asked, incredulous, his own gaze snapping between the hobbit and Gandalf. “Is that what – would Mister Baggins – is he sick in the mind?”

“Those questions, Thorin, will have to wait to be answered by Bilbo himself. Now, I must rest, for I used much of my energy to preserve our hobbit’s Call.” With that, the wizard walked away, leaning heavily on his staff.

Thorin tracked the wizard’s path to where he settled against the trunk of a nearby tree. He looked away when Gandalf caught him watching, and instead directed his attention to the hobbit. His nephews were still by his side, Kíli attempting to situate Bilbo’s body into a more comfortable position as Fíli shoved a rolled up cloak under the hobbit’s head.

“Fíli, Kíli,” he called, stepping closer to them. Their heads whipped around to face him.

“What did Gandalf say?”

“Will Bilbo wake up soon?”

Thorin held out a hand to halt the flow of questions. “The wizard says that Mister Baggins will be fine, in time. The two of you may take the first watch, if you like, in order to continue to watch over him.”

“Of course, Uncle!” the two chorused. Thorin nodded and started to walk away, but a brush of heat over his Song jerked him back. Bilbo’s face was twitching and his breathing became deeper and louder. A deep crease appeared over his eyebrows as his formerly vacant expression twisted, and a soft whimper slipped past his lips.

Thorin immediately knelt by the hobbit’s side, his hands pushing Kíli’s out of the way. The Forge Song wove itself around his mind just as he reached for Bilbo. Crackling and sparking, the fire grew and reached beyond the coals toward them. Thorin let it come. He laid his hands on either side of the hobbit’s head, allowing his Song to blanket the Call in the hobbit’s mind. Slowly, Bilbo ceased twitching and moaning, and his mind eased back into blank unconsciousness. The campfire settled back within its boundaries.

“Perhaps,” Thorin said to his nephews as he stood, “I will stay up as well.”

 

 

Bilbo regained consciousness slowly, almost in stages.

He was first aware of comfortable warmth all throughout his body.

After that, he felt an infuriating tingling in his limbs, but he was strangely unable to move to alleviate the feeling.

Next came the searing light from between his squinted eyelids, which gradually softened until he could open his eyes fully.

What in Eru’s name was he doing on the ground?

Where was he?

He tried to sit up, but his muscles protested and he groaned out loud. Someone called his name, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps, and then there was a face leaning close to his asking him questions.

What-

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to twist away from whoever it was; someone else yelped in pain, and a pair of rough hands was suddenly on either side of his face.

“Mister Baggins!” The voice was muffled, almost as if Bilbo was hearing it from underwater.

-water

He froze, heat flooding his senses.

The stream. He had gone to the stream. The Call was smothered, wasn’t it? His flung out his senses, hoping and praying and pleading that there would be no response –

“Mister Baggins! Let go! Let go of the fire!”

 _No_ , his mind cried. _Please, no! I just want it gone!_ His Call was still there, brighter than ever before. He could feel a nearby fire, and his Call was intertwined with the flames, throwing them higher and forcing them outward. There was something weaving in and out of the Call, something calm and structured. It was pressing on the Fires and attempting to push them back into the boundaries of Bilbo’s mind.

The voice was shouting now, urging him to relax, to calm the Fires, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t – the heat washed over him, and he only wanted to _burnburnburn_ –

\- darkness took him again.

The next time he woke, he gasped aloud, his upper body surging upwards before collapsing back down. The calloused hands were still pressed against his temples. His eyes flew open and he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Struggling futilely against the grip on his head, he fought the Call and his mind, chanting _no no no_ to himself.

Someone else was echoing his thoughts aloud… no, wait, that was him. “No, please, no, take it away, no, no.” His voice cracked over the words. He tried to close his eyes, to forget the Fires and return to the dark, but a stern voice called him back.

“Bilbo Baggins of the Shire! Look at me!” His Call was wrapped up by _something_ , and his eyes flew open when he recognized the feel –

“Thorin,” he rasped, his struggles ceasing when his gaze met the dwarf’s. “Thorin, what-”

“Quiet,” Thorin ordered softly, his thumbs grazing the tops of Bilbo’s cheekbones. “Do you know what has happened?”

Hesitating, Bilbo tried to look around Thorin’s head for a clue, but only saw the daytime sky. “I- I don’t – I was … at the river.” _Trying to get rid of his useless Calling. Where was he now?_

Thorin nodded encouragingly. “Can you still feel your Call?”

 _I don’t want to feel the Call_ , he didn’t reply. _I was trying to destroy it. Why did you stop me?_ His Call was thrumming steadily in his mind, toying with the nearby fire. He noticed that his skin was pleasantly warm, and his lungs filled with fresh, hot air every time he breathed in. Revulsion seeped into his mind.

“Yes, its there – but, there’s something else – oh, it’s you, isn’t it? I almost forgot.” His voice was rough, but strong.

Thorin nodded. “You lashed out, earlier. I had to Sing the Fires back down,” he said. The dwarf paused for a moment, his brows coming together as he frowned. He seemed to struggle with what to say before he finally continued, “Gandalf found you in the river, and we had to rekindle your Calling before-”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why did you bring it back? I was trying to get rid of it,” Bilbo whispered. “You brought it back. I wanted it gone, and you brought it back.” Seized by a sudden rush of anger, he twisted out of Thorin’s grasp and scrambled away. “Why?” Thorin’s Song faltered briefly before reaching for him again. With a glare, Bilbo’s Call flared and stripped out of the grip of the Song. He flexed his fingers and pulled from the campfire beside him. A tongue of fire curled into the air for a moment, and then erupted in a shower of sparks in front of Bilbo.

“Don’t you see?” he asked, almost shouting. “It only destroys! It hurts everyone, and I don’t _want_ it! I went to that stream for a _reason_ , damn you!” The fire was cracking and leaping beside him, and he wrenched his Call out of the flames with a cry. His mind felt hollow.

“And what was that reason?” Thorin countered. “To end your own life?”

Silence.

The rest of the Company was scattered around the clearing in various stages of alarm. Gandalf was on his feet, one arm thrown in front of Kíli to hold him back.

“What?” came Bilbo’s weak reply.

“Were you trying to end your own life, Mister Baggins?” The dwarf emphasized each word. “When the wizard found you, you were near death. If we had not brought back your Call, you would have _died_.”

“I-” Bilbo stammered, his face an expression of horror. “No, I – I wasn’t there to do _that_. No!” He shook his head violently, ignoring the comfortable lure of the campfire. “I only wanted to smother the Fires! They always told me to jump in the river and it would-” he stopped, choking back the confession. Lobelia’s cruel childhood voice rang through his head, unbidden.

Thorin frowned, his hands coming up as if to reach for the hobbit. Halfway into the motion, he stopped, allowing his hands to fall back to his sides. “Your Call is powerful. To smother your soul’s Fire would be the end of you. Do you understand?” When Bilbo did not respond, he continued, “To have a pure Fire-Calling is an incredible gift. Dwarves rely on fire in countless ways, and to be gifted with the Flames is a true honor amongst our people. I will remind you again, Bilbo Baggins, that you will not be sent away or shunned by those you see here.”

Bilbo’s head was swimming with Thorin’s words. “Truly?” he asked quietly, unable to stop himself.

“Of course!” Kíli’s young voice called from behind Gandalf. The others echoed him. Bilbo looked around at the Company, hardly daring to believe that this was real. There was no malice in their eyes, nor was there fear. His gaze returned to Thorin, who nodded once.

“Oh,” sighed the hobbit. His voice wavered. “You – you’re telling the truth. You’re not afraid. Oh.” He took a deep breath. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “Okay. I – hmm – oh, thank you – no, I don’t know – I need time to think about this.”

“And time you shall have, Bilbo Baggins,” replied Thorin, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile. “Time you shall have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? What do you think? Let me know if there's something you want to see, or something you don't like, or something you DO like, anything! I love feedback, okay. 
> 
> durinsheir


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was right, of course.
> 
> But why trolls? Of all things, why did it have to be trolls?
> 
> And, of course, Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, that damned wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK man. This story has stolen all my motivation. I suppose I'll get back to AoD eventually. Apologies again to all of you that also follow that fic.

Chapter Eight

 

The next several days passed Bilbo in a haze. Gandalf rode at his side at all times, chatting and joking, but the hobbit found it difficult to pay attention. All his thoughts were turned inwards, toward his Call.

Thorin had not lied about the acceptance of his ability by the Company. They never once looked down on him or sneered in his direction. Gloín even asked Bilbo for help when lighting the campfire one night when the only wood they could find was green and unresponsive to the dwarf’s matches.

“I can’t get the damned thing to light,” the red-haired dwarf had gruffed. “The wood’s too damned green and the matches are too damned weak. Normally, I wouldn’t ask ye to use your Song on something so trivial, but…”

The implied question had dragged Bilbo out of his funk. He narrowed his eyes at the pile of firewood slightly before looking back up at Gloín.

“You want me to – to light it?” he asked quietly. He could feel Gandalf watching him from across the campsite. Thorin stilled his movements by the line of picketed ponies, listening and waiting. He felt the first notes of his Forge Song rise in his mind.

Gloín held up his hands, palms facing outward. “If it’s not too much trouble, Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo chewed his bottom lip for half a moment before nodding jerkily. “Yes – I mean, no, it’s not too much trouble, and yes, I – I’ll light it.” Slowly, he crouched by the pile of wood and extended one hand.

The Forge Song in Thorin’s mind thrummed lowly when the hobbit’s Call began flowing around the wood, and he allowed himself to follow the Fire’s build. Bilbo’s lips pressed into a thin line and his forehead creased. Thin tendrils of smoke began pouring from the wood, building until it billowed upwards around the hobbit’s face.

“Kíli?” the hobbit called through the cloud of smoke. “Could you send this – ah, yes, perfect, thank you.” A small breeze scattered the smoke, and a thin smile was visible on Bilbo’s face as he flicked his fingers sharply in the direction of the wood.

A soft _whump_ , and bright yellow flames were licking eagerly at the wood. Thorin breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Bilbo’s call of, “I’m alright, Thorin. You can let go,” snapped Thorin to attention, and he winced at the accusatory touch of the hobbit’s Fire as it attempted to pull away from his Song. He instantly stripped away the Song and allowed the last chords to fade into his mind, grimacing apologetically in the hobbit’s direction. He was surprised to see a small answering smile.

“It wasn’t your matches, Master Gloín, that were the issue,” the hobbit said as he sat back on his heels. “The wood was still damp on the inside from the rain four – no, wait, five nights ago. In fact, if it’s not an inconvenience, I’d like to take a look at your matches. They’re coated differently than the ones I had at home, you see, and-”

“What use would you have for matches, Mister Baggins?” Kíli asked, and Thorin froze again when Bilbo flinched noticeably.

“Kíli,” Thorin growled lowly, but Bilbo was shaking his head sharply.

“No, no, it’s alright. He just caught me off-guard, that’s all.” Bilbo smiled weakly at Kíli. “My uncles keep me well supplied, so I don’t frighten any of the relatives that come calling, however rare that may be – or, well, may have been. I suppose that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?” he trailed off quietly, frowning at his hands.

Ori broke the awkward silence by crouching down next to the hobbit and offering him a battered book of matches. “I’ve got extras, Mister Bilbo.”

The hobbit’s hands shook slightly as he reached for the matches. “Thank you, Ori,” he said, pocketing the matchbook and standing. Without another word, he retreated to the far side of the camp, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket.

 

* * *

 

They reached the ruined farmhouse before the end of the next week, and the abrupt departure of Gandalf surprised no one but Bilbo, it seemed.

“Where are you going?” the hobbit called, jogging after the irate wizard.

“Away!” came the short response, and Bilbo was left coughing in the dust kicked up by Gandalf’s galloping horse. Incredulous, the hobbit turned back to the Company, only to find them setting up camp as if nothing remarkable had happened.

“Will he come back?” he asked no one in particular. A few of the dwarves shrugged. After a moment of silence, Bofur dusted off his hands and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder.

“He’s a wizard, laddie, and wizards do as they please. Besides, you know him better than any of us,” the dwarf said, chuckling at Bilbo’s dismayed expression.

An angrily shouted, “Mister Baggins! Up here, if you please!” interrupted Bilbo’s protests that he most certainly did _not_ know the wizard that well. He looked up to find Thorin stomping around inside the burned out frame of the farmhouse. The King stopped pacing for a moment to beckon the hobbit over with a sharp jerk of his head. Hesitantly, Bilbo picked his way through the rubble to stand at Thorin’s side.

“Um,” he started, nudging a charred timber with one foot.

“What can you tell me about this building?” Thorin demanded, halting his angry pacing right in front of Bilbo. The hobbit jerked back a step, looking around wildly at his surroundings.

“Oh! Um. Well. It burned down…?” he hedged, biting his lower lip. Thorin rolled his eyes skyward and growled something Bilbo did not understand before throwing him a withering glare.

“ _Using your Call_ ,” the dwarf said, “what can you tell me about this building?”

Oh.

Bilbo cast about nervously for a moment before forcing himself to calm down. This was easy, he could do this. Closing his eyes, he allowed his Call to draw a picture in his mind of the building –

“Two days ago,” he said finally. “It burned two days ago… it feels like – oh!” He threw out one hand, fingers straining awkwardly. His Call had run across something not quite natural buried beneath the rubble.

“What?” Thorin demanded, looking between Bilbo and where his hand pointed. “What is it?”

Frowning, Bilbo lowered his hand. “There’s a piece of wood over there that’s different than the rest. It burned quicker, but not completely. I think it might have been a torch.”

“Which means what exactly?”

Bilbo snapped irritably in response, “Can’t your Forge Song tell you any of this?”

“Would you be up here if it could?” Thorin countered. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“Fine, fine, alright. If I’m right about the torch – and I think I am – then that _means_ this fire was probably not an accident.”

Thorin made a soft noise of surprise. “Not an accident?”

Shrugging, Bilbo nodded, “The fire started where the remnants of the torch lie. Someone must have thrown it in through a window, or something. Are we in danger here, Thorin?” He cast his Call wider, wary of his surroundings now. Feeling nothing but the campfire, though, he allowed his Call to recede.

“What did you find?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo realized that the dwarf probably felt his sudden search through his Forge Song. He shook his head. Thorin frowned.

“We will double the night’s watches.”

Bilbo had the feeling that, somehow, that might not be enough.

 

* * *

 

He was right, of course.

But why _trolls?_ Of all things, why did it have to be trolls?

And, _of course,_ Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, that damned _wizard_.

Bilbo didn’t blame Fíli and Kíli, though. The boys were only doing what they thought was right at the time. He _was_ supposed to be a burglar, after all, even if said burglar was stuffed in a sack just like the others. The ponies had been freed, though, and he privately counted that as a success.

“Can’t you do something, Fire-burglar?” some rasped close to his head. Bilbo rolled his eyes in response. What could he do? He was stuffed in a bag just like the rest of them, and, besides, trolls had horribly thick skin, too thick to burn properly. His first attempt at saving himself had resulted in nothing more than the trolls thinking he had unnaturally hot skin. And before he could try to do something more, the Company had come charging out of the trees, doing their damndest to get themselves killed. Why had Thorin surrendered? Surely, they could have defeated the trolls eventually, especially with Bilbo out of the way?

“Oi, Bert.”

“Wha’?”

“They ain’t cookin. We needs to lower the spit.”

This brought about a chorus of shouts accompanied by wild struggling from the entire Company. Those few hanging over the fire seemed even paler than before.

“Fer once, William, I think you may be right,” Bert replied, reaching for the logs holding up the dwarves.

“Burglar!” Thorin snapped over the shouts of the Company.

“What?!”

“Do something!”

Two of the trolls were stripping away the ropes holding up the spit when Bilbo rolled to his knees inside the sack. He suppressed a shudder at the way the thick fabric muffled his Call.

“Um,” he cleared his throat. “Excuse me!”

The trolls ignored him. Thorin began cursing colorfully behind him.

“Hello!”

Still no response.

Bilbo frowned and concentrated on the fire, pushing aside the strain the sack was putting on his mind. Taking a deep breath, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “ _Excuse me!_ ” just as he stripped the fire from the wood with a loud _whoosh._ He anticipated the following astonishment, but he did _not_ expect the flames to immediately come screaming through the air toward him. He had the chance to mutter a surprised “Oh, damn,” before the flames engulfed him completely.

Several of the dwarves shouted his name in horror and struggled away from the flames. Bilbo grimaced as he watched the tongues of fire happily eat away at the cloth sack, and did his best to keep his clothes from being singed. When the last of the bag had been reduced to ash, he scattered the leftover fire and struggled to his feet.

“Right, then,” he said, flicking a bit of ash off his sleeve, “I think we’ve all had enough of this nonsense, don’t you?” The Fire hummed under his skin, waiting and wanting. The trolls were dumbstruck, their mouths hanging open stupidly.

“Bert, did ‘e just-”

“-is that magic?”

“How’d you do that, burahobbit?”

Bilbo crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the trolls. He didn’t have time for this – oh, good gracious _time_ – what was the old wives’ tale about trolls… Sunrise! Stone at sunrise! He looked up at the sky and was delighted to see the earliest touches of pink at the horizon. Not long now…

“Bert, William, and, er, you,” he said, hesitating over the third troll, “it has been a very – ahem – educational evening, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to release this Company. They’re no good for eating, anyways, not the way you were cooking them.”

“The way we what?” Bert asked, stepping menacingly forward. Bilbo threw up a hand in warning, Calling a single tongue of fire to dance around his fingers. The troll backtracked quickly.

“He says we’re cookin’ the dwarfses wrong!” William informed the other two indignantly.

“And he’s lyin’!” the third troll spat, reaching once more for the spit. “William, relight the fire. Bert, grab the little burahobbit-thing.”

Bert made to come at Bilbo again, but Bilbo stepped quickly out of reach. “Ah, I think _not_ ,” he said, flicking fire into the troll’s eyes and smirking when the creature howled. He dashed to one side, leading the enraged troll away from Thorin and those still on the ground, all the while concentrating on smothering William’s attempts to relight the fire.

“Watch out!” someone shouted after him, and he ducked just in time to see the trolls’ crude filleting knife come flying over his head. He nearly tripped over his own feet, then, cursing when he felt the campfire come to life once his attention had been diverted. A high-pitched shriek reached his ears, and he slid to a stop to find the campfire reaching for Ori. Horrified, Bilbo forgot about the trolls and _reached_ , the Call forcing the fire down and out until it had almost been extinguished.

Thorin’s voice cut through the commotion, “ _Move!_ ” and Bilbo jumped forward just as a large hand reached for him, narrowly avoiding Bert’s grasp. He sprinted to the far side of the fire, out of the immediate reach of the trolls, and threw up his hands in what he hoped was a threatening move.

“The next one of you that moves,” he said, gasping for breath and doing his best to hold on to the Fire, “will be burned to a cinder, I swear! So, I dare you, take _one more step-_ ”

A thunderous voice cut him off, followed by a deafening crack, “May the dawn take you all!”

Light spilled into the clearing, beautiful morning sunlight, and the trolls _howled_. Bilbo watched, relief flooding his body, as the creatures were turned to stone, and Gandalf – _Gandalf_ , that damned wizard! Late as usual! Never around when he is needed! – stepped blithely into the circle of the campsite as if he had only been away for a few minutes.

“Excellent work, my dear boy,” he remarked as he passed Bilbo and began working to free Thorin. “Excellent work.”

The hobbit, his breath coming in shallow gasps, gaped up at the wizard, then down at his own two hands. The Call was still roiling in the corners of his mind, and he took a deep breath, easing the Fire down. When he looked up, he caught the glancing feeling of Thorin’s Forge Song dancing around his Call. He met the dwarf’s gaze across the campsite, and Thorin nodded approvingly before bending to help Gandalf free the rest of the Company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting and kudoing! You guys are awesome. If you ever wanna suggest plot ideas, please oh please drop me a message!
> 
> durinsheir
> 
> PS: I will recommend Bastille for the rest of my life to you guys. Also! Thriving Ivory has this album called Through Yourself and Back Again and it's basically a fanmix for The Hobbit, no joke.

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think? I'm having fun with it. 
> 
> Anyways. I'm thinking that among hobbits, Callings like Wind, Water, Earth, Garden, Forest, etc, are common, and that Fire-Calling is only seen among a few Men and Dwarves. Hobbits are never Fire-Callers, never ever. Most dwarves will be Stone, Earth, Metal, etc. 
> 
> Let me know if you have any ideas you want to share! I'm on tumblr, or you can comment here.
> 
> durinsheir


End file.
